


Edge of Resonance

by ikeracity, Pangea, Synekdokee



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M, Pacific Rim AU, Telepathic Bond, a distinct lack of samba dancing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2017-12-22 03:59:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikeracity/pseuds/ikeracity, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pangea/pseuds/Pangea, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synekdokee/pseuds/Synekdokee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an incident that forces his former co-pilot Charles to the sidelines, Erik doesn't believe he'll ever find another Drift-compatible partner that will allow him to pilot again. This changes when Shatterdome Marshall Sebastian Shaw brings back Alex Summers, an ex-Ranger who quit the program after a disastrous mission that cost him his best friend, and with him, Erik finds his way back into a Jaeger.</p><p>And not a moment too soon - Charles, now a member of the PPDC Research Division, is on the verge of making a breakthrough that may end the Kaiju threat once and for all, and they'll need every available Jaeger they have to finish the war that has been brought to their doorstep from the deep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Matters of Compatibility

**Author's Note:**

> We're starting off quick and easy here, just to ease ourselves in - things _will_ pick up. Enjoy!
> 
> Words by **Ike** & **Pan** , art by **Syn**.

X

 

Rain.

Tiny drops at first, spaced wide enough apart that they’re nearly unnoticeable, before they grow larger in volume and thicker in surface area, splashing down from the stormy grey clouds above the city illuminated by all manner of light pollution. The lightning flashing overhead is nearly swallowed by it.

Charles runs, heedless of the rain and feet slapping loudly on wet pavement as he pushes through the massive, roiling crowds, deaf to the thunder and the screaming. Deaf to the far-off sounds that could be more thunder but Charles knows better. Those are the sounds skyscrapers make while coming down.

Charles runs, but there is nowhere to go.

 

X

 

Alex is sitting down for the first time all day when the last person he ever really wants to see again walks around a large pile of rebar.

“No,” he says calmly, and takes a bite out of his sandwich.

“It’s good to see you, son.” Sebastian Shaw still smiles the exact same way he did five years ago: with nearly overwhelming smug self-satisfaction. “You look good.”

“I look done with this conversation,” Alex retorts around a mouthful of turkey. He chews and swallows, before taking a swig of water. “I walked away. Now it’s your turn to do the same.”

Shaw’s expression turns mournful, which is bullshit. The man wouldn’t know how to mourn at his own mother’s funeral.  “I’d be perfectly happy to leave you here, building—” he makes a show out of glancing up at the massive, half-built wall still crawling with construction workers, “—little sandcastles on the beach, but really, son, just tell me one thing. Do you honestly believe that a wall will hold them?”

Alex doesn’t answer.

Shaw grins. “I didn’t think so.”

“I’m not coming back, Shaw,” Alex says tersely. “I’m done. I’m done with you, I’m done with the Drift—” His voice cuts out before he can go any further.

“Doesn’t sound like it,” Shaw says softly after a few moments’ pause.

Alex never really does end up finishing that sandwich, which is a shame because it did taste pretty good, for ration food.

 

X

 

Erik trains idiots for a living. Absolute, incurable idiots who wouldn’t know the left hemisphere of a Jaeger from its right, even given a diagram with arrows and highlighted labels and all that shit.

That’s only his personal opinion, of course. Charles happens to think that Erik’s recruits are perfectly nice, bright young boys and girls who have the misfortune of always moving one or two steps slower than Erik does, and Erik never did have any patience for those he considers laggards.

Erik’s mind is brimming with frustration now, nearing burnout after a long, fruitless week of weeding out those not fit to be Rangers and trying to match up recruits who have the potential for being Drift-compatible. Charles caresses his ragged thoughts, tempering Erik’s irritation with brushes of affection until the tension releases from Erik’s muscles and he leans his head down against Charles’s shoulder with a sigh.

“Long day?” Charles asks, raising his arm slightly to run his fingers through Erik’s short hair. He’s cut it recently, cropped it a couple of inches until it’s no longer capable of falling into his eyes. Charles thinks about getting himself a haircut, too; he’s getting tired of wrangling with it every morning.

“Just like every day,” Erik grumbles. After a moment, he adds, _Don’t cut your hair. I like it this long. Perfect for tugging._

Charles laughs. “Yes, I’ll take your tugging preferences into consideration.” He kisses the crown of Erik’s head and reaches over with his free hand to lace his fingers through Erik’s. Looking out over the docking bay, he says quietly, “She’s getting restless.”

Erik’s hand tightens around his. Charles can feel that he wants to protest, wants to offer the same complaints he’s been harboring for nearly five years now. _There’s no one else,_ his mind says. _I’ve tried everyone, and none of them are you._

Aloud, Erik says, “I know.”

They stare out at her, at her dark magenta flanks and wide silver chest-plates, gleaming dully in the dim light of a half-powered bay. Charles knows every inch of her, every scrape of her armor, every battle-earned scar. Erik knows her even better; even now, Charles is distantly aware of Erik running magnetic fingers over their girl, not looking for anything in particular, just using the familiar touch of metal to blunt the edge of his annoyance and bring him some semblance of calm.

As always, it feels good to be here in this abandoned bay, sitting on the side platform nearly a hundred yards in the air, their legs dangling through the railings, their lunches left half-finished by their sides. Charles likes it best when it’s just him and Erik and Onslaught, just like it used to be. He won’t lie, he misses it a lot. And he knows, from the sharp pang of longing that runs like a current through Erik’s mind every time he looks out at Onslaught or at Charles, that Erik misses it, too.

But there’s no going back. Charles says musingly, “You haven’t tried to match yourself in a couple of months.”

Erik snorts. “There’s no point. You and I, we’re as Drift-compatible as it comes. I can’t find that again.”

“Maybe you just don’t _want_ to find it again,” Charles says, trying to sound more innocently inquisitive than accusatory. He knows Erik’s reluctant to find a new partner. Erik still blames himself for what happened, and he’s still got enough anger left in him to blind him to the fact that, subconsciously or not, he hasn’t made much effort to get back into a Jaeger in years. He’s right; he and Charles were more Drift-compatible than almost any other partnership, so strongly bound that even outside of the Jaeger, there’s a link in the back of their minds, faint and largely imperceptible but present. Ghost-Drifting, they call it. But in their case, it’s mostly a byproduct of Charles’s telepathy. Telepathic pilots are prone to forming more solid bonds than psi-null ones, but psi-null pilots form workable Drifts all the time. It’ll be nearly impossible to find another partner for Erik as Drift-compatible with him as Charles, of course. But he can find one that’s Drift-compatible enough. The problem is that he’s not looking.

Erik scowls as he picks up that thought. “I’m looking. Don’t think I’m not. I won’t spend the rest of my career watching over a bunch of incompetent recruits bumbling around in their simulators. I’m a pilot, not a goddamn instructor.”

Charles grins. “That’s the spirit.”

Footsteps echo up the walkway toward them, and they both turn, curious because no one visits this bay except them. Charles reads the familiar thought signature and stands, reaching down a hand to help Erik to his feet, too. “Hank,” he says, before anyone’s even materialized on the platform.

A moment later, Hank rounds the corner of the stairs and hops up onto the platform with them. His eyes are alight with excitement. He spares Charles a quick “hello” before turning his attention to Erik. “The Marshall wants to see you.”

Erik’s scowl deepens automatically at the mention of Shaw. “What for?”

“He’s coming back from Alaska,” Hank replies eagerly. “He’s found you a co-pilot.”

 

X

 

_"She's getting restless."_

 

X

 

There is an entire manual on the rules and regulations of Drifting and the operation of a Jaeger, which of course there is; they’re shoving two people into each other’s minds and handing them a large, expensive robot with enough firepower to capture a small country and set up a new regime. It’s standard.

It’s mandatory reading for all Rangers before they even set foot within a five-mile radius of a Jaeger, and they’re expected to know the manual front to back, no exceptions.

Everyone agrees, though, that there’s really only one thing you need to know about Drifting—whatever you do, protect your partner at all costs. It sounds romantic, in a way, but the reality could be no further from the fact of the matter.

You don’t want to experience them dying in your head.

 

X

 

The tea steeps slowly, discoloration from the leaves swirling up through the clear water as a rich, organic smell Charles usually associates with his childhood fills the air. The cup is fine china, inlaid with gold. He fears that he should have washed his hands before even touching it in the first place.

“Walk me through this one more time,” Lady Frost says. She sits in a high-backed chair as if it were a sofa, her crossed legs hanging over one of the delicately carved armrests. Instead of using the spoon beside her saucer she takes out a gleaming silver knife that would probably make Erik go cross-eyed and prods gently at the teabag in the bottom of her cup. “You want a Kaiju brain.”

“Yes,” Charles says calmly. Unlike her, he’s quite alright with just using the spoon. He stirs until the tea is less water and more infused with the spices, and takes a sip. It’s hard to decide whether or not looking at Lady Frost head-on is appropriate. The eyepatch is rather distracting. “As I explained previously, I’ve developed a method to Drift with a Kaiju mind.”

Emma studies him, her face a mask and her mind a cold, motionless pond. Not a single ripple here, even as she takes a sip from her own cup.

“And what did you discover in your first attempt?”

Charles nearly blinks. She doesn’t believe him. “Not enough,” he admits, dreadfully aware of how little this is going to help his case. Were Erik here, he’d be putting holes in Charles’ persuasion methods just because how thin it is. “The Kaiju mind I initiated a Drift with was unfortunately very close to complete decomposition, so not much was left regarding thoughts or memories.”

He pauses, hesitant to go on. This is highly sensitive information. Emma continues to watch him, still inscrutable. If she weren’t a telepath, Charles would already be trying to get a read on her if only for the sake of knowing whether or not he’s about to be shot.

As it is, attempting to get a read on her anyway _will_ get him shot.

“The Kaiju are being cloned and grown for the sole purpose of exterminating the population of planet Earth,” he says bluntly, “I need to find out who is doing the cloning and why, as well as how to stop them.”

Silence. Charles could hear a pin drop in this golden, gilded hall, even with the thick oriental rugs serving as floor cover.

“You do realize how hard it is to extract a Kaiju brain,” Emma drawls after a few moments where Charles pointedly does not fidget at all, “as in, it’s impossible if you want something that’s still functional.”

“I’d only need the second brain,” Charles answers pleasantly, pasting a smile on his face while ignoring the dull throb steadily growing stronger in the back of his mind.  

He can block Erik out of his mind completely with his telepathy but there is nothing he can do about the bond between them born from their Drifting. He and Erik are practically a case study when it comes to determining the long-term side effects Drifting has on the human mind, what with their off-the-charts compatibility and Charles’ telepathy only heightening the effects. It has been found that when one Drifts enough with the same person, the mind link shared in the Drift eventually follows one back into reality—this has been proven even for pairs not including a telepath; Logan and Kitty are a prime example of that. The bond between Charles and Erik, however, evolved much faster and remains the most potent out of all the Ranger pairs, and it does not like physical distance.

The further Charles is from Erik and the longer he stays there, the more the bond tugs on his mind, pulling him back home. Charles estimates that he has less than an hour before Erik figures things out and comes looking for him. He always was stubborn about pain— _mind over matter, Charles_ —but this is something he will be unable to ignore.

“The second brain is easier to reach,” Emma acknowledges, unaware for now of Charles’ mental rift, “but still a hassle. A rather large one, too, especially if you don’t have the means to pay.” She blows on her cup, sending a small wisp of steam at Charles from across the table. “I don’t do charity.”

“I am prepared to pay whatever you require,” Charles informs her calmly, “just get me a Kaiju brain.”

She arches her brow. “You’ll have to wait for now, sugar, I don’t just keep Kaiju brains lying around, despite how I keep stock of all the other parts. If you want a brain, you’re going to have to bring me a Kaiju.”

The heavy oak doors burst open, and one of Emma’s thugs enters the room, bowing low. “Forgive the interruption, my lady,” he says, “but we’ve received incoming reports that two Kaiju are approaching the city. Both Category IV.”

“Well well,” Emma says over the rim of her cup, one icy blue eye glinting at Charles, “it looks like you’re in luck, Dr. Xavier.”

 

X

 

Alex peers around the cramped office curiously, making a slow round of the room as Shaw stands by his desk and watches him silently. Probably making sure he doesn’t palm anything, even if Alex’s days as a street rat and a thief are long since over. He remembers the Marshall’s old office, back at the Anchorage Shatterdome. It had been three times as big as this one, grand and spacious and impeccably well-kept, with not a spot of rust in sight. This room has seen better days: the iron rafters are corroded at the edges, the carpet underfoot threadbare, the furniture sparse and clashing. Times are rough, Alex thinks, if Shaw’s allowing his personal spaces to fall into disarray like this. The Marshall Alex remembers wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere that even hinted at the presence of mothballs.

“Seen enough?” Shaw asks eventually, examining his nails in disinterest. “Are you done trying to gain some leverage over me by looking through my possessions or can we get to business?”

“Not everyone’s trying to get dirt on you,” Alex mutters.

“My policy is to believe that everyone is,” Shaw replies coolly. “It saves me from wasting time deciding who to trust and who to watch.”

Alex snorts. “So you just don’t trust anybody. Healthy way to live.”

“A way to _live_ ,” the Marshall says, taking a seat behind his desk in a high-backed office chair with faded leather and scuffed wheels. He gestures to the armchair across from him, but Alex remains standing, his shoulders slightly hunched, his posture drawn in—a reminder of his teenage years. Even the Jaeger Academy, with all its militant strictness and instructors who exacted punishment for stances that were a scant few degrees off regulation perfect, hadn’t been able to straighten him out completely. Once he’d quit piloting, he’d fallen back into the habit of making himself look smaller, less of a threat and easier to sneak around without being noticed. Maybe it’s habit now that keeps him slouched in front of the man who runs the entire Hong Kong Shatterdome, the largest of any Jaeger base in the PPDC. Maybe it’s just the instinctive urge to piss Shaw off.

“What am I even doing here?” Alex asks, when it’s clear Shaw won’t be the one to break the silence. “I heard the news. The Jaeger Program’s been axed.”

Shaw’s answering smile is frosty. “We’re being de-funded,” he corrects. “Gradually.”

Euphemisms. Alex has seen the reports just like everyone else. “This is the only Shatterdome left, isn’t it? Hate to say it, but it looks like a program being axed to me.”

A flicker of annoyance crosses Shaw’s normally-unruffled features. “The work of human governments,” he sniffs, aligning the folders on his desk at precise right angles to the desk corners. “They never seem to understand what is necessary. Their timing is, as usual, abysmal.” The door chimes to announce an arrival, and Shaw’s smile curves lazily upwards. “But _his_ timing is, as usual, faultless.”

“His...?” Alex echoes, turning toward the door as it slides open with a hiss of disengaging locks and a slow screech of old machinery.

“His,” Shaw confirms, standing as a familiar figure steps into the room, his posture ramrod straight, hands clasped behind his back, his stride measured and quick.

Surprise ripples down Alex’s spine. Now there’s a face Alex hasn’t seen in person in five years, not since he’d fucked off to build the world’s tallest and least useful wall. Erik Lehnsherr looks stern and serious as ever, his mouth drawn into a tight line, his brow furrowed. His steely gaze locks onto Alex and widens fractionally. He looks older, Alex notes. He has more lines around his eyes, and there’s a heavy weight behind his gaze that Alex doesn’t remember. Erik has always looked composed and alert, but right then, he looks more tired than anything else. Tired and wary.

“Alex Summers,” he says, a hint of confusion to his words. “I thought you were gone for good.”

Alex nods. “I was. Then the Marshall found me, brought me back.”

Erik’s eyes narrow as they drift over to Shaw. “What’s this?” he asks, his tone going hard. There’s always been bad blood between Erik and Shaw, but Alex and the others have never figured out what happened. All they know is that both of them were stationed at the same Shatterdome in Vladivostok before transferring to Alaska, Erik first and then Shaw a couple of years later. There’s a history there to be uncovered, but Alex figures that he isn’t going to be the one doing the uncovering, as curious as he is. Erik and Shaw are both secretive types, and Alex doesn’t have the time, patience, or motivation to pry up their pasts, as much as he wishes he could understand what makes the two of them so cold and closed-off and generally unpleasant to be around. They’re excellent soldiers and leaders, Alex will admit to that. And maybe that’s all he needs to know, in the end.

“This,” Shaw replies, appearing to take great pleasure in the growing consternation on Erik’s face, “is your new copilot.”

Alex wheels around in shock. “What?”

“What?” Erik echoes, sounding outraged. “You don’t pick my copilots for me, Shaw. I pick them myself.”

Shaw looks unconcerned in the face of his anger. “Seeing as how you’ve failed to accept a new copilot in _five_ _years_ , Erik, I took it upon myself to find you one. Alex Summers here is one of the finest pilots of the program. Or he was.” He glances at Alex, scanning him over from head to toe. “Might be again. One can only hope.”

“Summers hasn’t jockeyed in five years either,” Erik says flatly. “A lot has changed since then.”

“He’ll adapt. Won’t you, boy?”

Shaw has an irritating manner of insisting on being hailed by his proper title and then turning around and calling everyone _boy_ in a patronizing tone that makes Alex want to snap back at him. But he bites back his annoyance and says, “Sure,” because he didn’t come all the way out here from Alaska for nothing.

Then a thought strikes him. Spinning on his heel, he shoots Erik a baffled look. “But—wait. Where’s Charles?”

Erik’s expression shutters so quickly it’s as if a stoic faceplate has slammed into place, rapid and seamless as well-oiled machinery. The only hints of his discomposure are the minute clench of his jaw and the way he presses his lips so tightly together that they go white.

For a second, Alex is afraid Charles is dead. He has never seen Erik go blank like this, not even at the mention of his parents, not even at the mention of Shaw. But then, before his fear can fully take shape, the Marshall explains, his voice clinically detached, like reading from a report. “Kaiju attack, April of 2022. Codename Knifehead. You remember.”

Alex feels as if he’s been punched in the gut. _Knifehead._ Not a name he’ll ever forget.

Shaw continues, ignoring the way Alex sways a bit on his feet. “Onslaught was heavily damaged by the attack. Both pilots were injured, Xavier badly enough that he was deemed no longer fit to pilot a Jaeger. He hasn’t entered one since, hence the search for Erik’s new copilot. A search, I might add, that he has not been particularly cooperative in.”

Alex gapes at both of them in disbelief. He remembers that battle vividly—or the parts of it where he was conscious at least. He knows Onslaught went out after them, and he knows Charles and Erik were wounded in the pursuit. Onslaught had had to be dragged back to the Shatterdome in pieces, almost as ripped up as Red Darwin had been. And he knows that Charles spent almost two weeks in the hospital, comatose for a good part of it. But as soon as the doctors had said Charles would be okay, Alex had taken off, unable to remain for another minute in a place that had been a home to him and Armando. But without Armando, it had been nothing.

He’d always thought Charles had healed up properly and gotten back into Onslaught within a few weeks. Maybe he’d taken a couple of months or so off to recuperate. But injured badly enough that he was deemed unfit to pilot? No way.

“I’ve been cooperative,” Erik grinds out through his teeth, oblivious to Alex’s shock. “But I’m not Drift-compatible with anyone. Not anymore. I’ve tried.”

“You keep telling me that.” Shaw smiles and points at Alex, his eyes calculating and cold enough to make Alex shiver. “But you haven’t tried him.”

 

X

 

Erik remembers their first Drift perfectly. Raven’s slow countdown in their ears. The pinch of the spinal clamp along his back. The quick, furtive look Charles shot him just as Raven reached _one._

The split-second of breathless anticipation as he braced himself for the punch-to-the-gut feeling of being wrenched into a bridge, into a place where he and Charles were subsumed into a collective _them._

He felt the impact. His mind spun out, no longer under his complete control, leaving him disoriented and dizzy as expected, and he struggled to keep his breathing even as memories and information and thoughts bombarded him— _now_ a shot of a blue-eyed child crying in his bedroom, _now_ a boy standing on the steps of Oxford college, _now_ a flash of blue-scaled skin and laughing yellow eyes, _now_ Charles lying in bed reading a book, _now_ Charles in the Kwoon Combat Room sparring, _now_ Charles sitting in the labs of the research division of the Alaskan Shatterdome, _now_ Charles smiling wide and happy and young—

Then everything wrenched back into focus, and Charles’ voice said in his head, _Hello, Erik._

He had never felt this before. This... _wholeness._

 _We’re Drift-compatible,_ he thought, awed. They had tried him with a dozen different partners, but this was the first time he had ever reached the Drift. So this was how it felt. He hadn’t imagined it being so _warm._

 _Yes, we are,_ Charles thought back, his own mind a burst of joy. He held out his left arm and Erik extended his right. Beneath them, responding with perfect fluidity, Onslaught did the same.

Erik couldn’t help it. He laughed, low and eager. Finally. _Then let’s go._

Charles laughed, too, the sort of ringing, bright laughter that stuck in your ears forever. _Yes, let’s._


	2. Grounded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They haven't changed since last time, but do mind the tags.

X

 

They dump him out onto the streets.

“You,” Emma says, jabbing one perfectly manicured finger at Charles’ chest, “go to a public shelter. Try not to get yourself killed.”

Charles stares at her, aghast. “You have a Kaiju bunker right here. The nearest public shelter is three miles away!”

“Tough luck, sugar. I don’t think you understand what’s happening here.” Her finger travels up, nearly swiping Charles’ nose. “You initiated a Drift with a Kaiju. You were a pilot once; you know neural bridges go both ways. And now two Kaiju at once? This is no coincidence. I think they’re coming for you, and I’m not letting you stick around to test my theory. Now get out.”

Of course. He doesn’t know how he could’ve been so stupid. Even the mostly-degenerated Kaiju brain had been functional, and when he’d Drifted with it, it had gotten parts of him just as he had gotten parts of it. He remembers the blur of too many minds pressing up against his own, drawn in by both the Drift and his telepathy, almost too much for him to bear, too much for him to fight through to find his way back to himself. If he’s right about the hive mind, then the Kaiju’s creators already know. They all know.

He doesn’t stop to reason with her. He knows Emma looks out for only herself and, occasionally, her own. He doesn’t factor into her considerations unless he can be of use, and at the moment, with the possibility of two Kaijus on the hunt for him, the only use she has for him is as bait to lure them away.

A distant roar echoes through the growing storm. Without another word, Charles wipes rainwater from his eyes and begins to run.

 

X

 

The Kaiju howls outside and Alex feels the entire Jaegar give a mighty lurch, teetering where it stands before he forcibly slams one foot down to keep them steady. Alarms are blaring, lights are flashing. They’re at 47% and dropping fast.

His arm feels like it’s broken and Raven is shouting in his ear.

“They’re on their way,” she says, fast and urgent, “so you guys just hang on, they’re already fifteen miles out which gives them an ETA of five—”

“Alex,” Armando says, his voice becoming the forefront of what Alex’s mind processes.  Everything else fades away. Things tend to do that a lot, when Armando is involved. “Alex, I need you to do one thing for me, okay?”

“What,” Alex says blankly. Later he’ll hate himself for that. There are so many other things he could’ve said. Wants to say. “What are you—”

“Listen,” Armando says, and smiles. Alex can feel the warmth behind it, crackling between them and curling in his stomach. “Whatever happens, just—”

Red Darwin’s hull is torn open with a deafening screech of metal and Armando is snatched up out of the wreckage right before Alex’s wide eyes. He hears Armando screaming both aloud and in his head, feels the terrible crunch of Kaiju teeth around his-their middle, and then knows no more.

 

X

 

They tell him later that Onslaught arrived ten seconds afterwards, nearly burning themselves off the face of the planet with how much they push the Jaeger to go faster, _faster_.

Alex isn’t sure what to say to that. There’s only really one thing to say, and no one wants to hear it even though they’re all thinking it. It brings bile to his mouth.

They weren’t fast _enough_.

 

X

 

“It’s not going to work.”

“Shut up, Hank,” Charles answers shortly, only half-good naturedly. He likes Hank McCoy, he really does, and thinks that Hank has a fascinating, brilliant mind, but there are days where he wishes that the boy was actually able to look past his precious equations and calculations and try a little applied science instead.

“But it isn’t,” Hank insists, completely missing the undercurrent of warning in Charles’ voice. “If you attempt a Drift with a Kaiju mind, the only thing that’s going to happen is that your brain will melt out of your ears. And then Erik will kill me.”

“Erik won’t kill you,” Charles says, flapping an absent, dismissive hand as he adjusts the node he’s attached to the pulsing Kaiju brain. Even so, he carefully double-checks that he’s blocked Erik from his mind as best as he can. No need to alarm him.

Hank shifts nervously on either foot, looking about two seconds from running to hide behind his extensive chalkboards. “Charles, I’m serious. This isn’t a good idea. I—I forbid you.”

Charles looks up for the first time in an hour, cocking an amused eyebrow. “You forbid me?”

Hank swallows but nods. “Yes.”

“Well, my dear chap,” Charles says, clapping him once on the shoulder, “I’m sorry to say, but you aren’t the boss. I wouldn’t be driven to these lengths anyway if it weren’t for you, you know. You’re the one who had to be all pushy and convince the Marshall that I’m full of nonsense and that your little equation sequence is the only logical way.”

“Charles,” Hank says desperately, “the proof is _right here_ , I’ve drawn up a theorem and everything, if you’d just—”

“No,” Charles says pointedly as he fits the headpiece onto his skull. Deep down in a place that even Erik is rarely allowed, Charles quietly resents his place in the base’s science department. Once upon another lifetime he would have been happy here, deep within a lab stocked with the finest equipment that money can buy and all the backing—and funding—to do as he pleases, but Charles knows better. He’s felt the Drift. He’s seen the rabbit, and while he’s never chased it, the glimpse is enough. He is a telepath—Drifting and piloting a Jaeger is what he was born to do.

Erik can never know. He blames himself enough as it is.

Charles has never blamed him. Not once.

Fate is a cruel mistress, Charles thinks with a wry curl of his lip, and he’s had enough of catering to her whims. She’s taken Onslaught from him, and nearly took Erik too. She’s left him in the lab, grounded where his research isn’t given the time of day, let alone taken seriously even when he knows he’s right: Drifting with a Kaiju is the only way they’re ever going to glean the kind of information they need to win this war.

“Let’s make this a short one, for our first round,” Charles says cheerfully to Hank, making a few last minute adjustments before placing his hand lightly on the green button that will help him take the plunge, “I’m due to meet Erik in the hangar for lunch.”

 

X

 

“It’s not going to work,” Alex says without quite looking at Erik.

“Never know until we try,” Erik answers in the sort of light tone that most people use when they agree with what’s being said but are half-heartedly attempting to not be pessimistic. Charles must be getting through to him.

“I’ve lost too much,” Alex says anyway, past the sudden lump in his throat. His heart is beating a little too loudly in his chest, laid too bare for the first time in so long, open and exposed for Erik to dig his claws in however he choses.

Erik only quirks a smile that is everything but.  “So have I.”

 

X

 

Erik is the last prospective candidate on Charles’ list, and at first he looks no more promising than the rest. His face is closed-off and severe, and he doesn’t even return Charles’ smile.

“Charles Xavier,” he says politely anyway, before slipping fluidly into his preferred ready stance.

“Erik Lehnsherr,” comes the reply, and, interestingly enough, Erik mirrors him.

 _That_ earns him the smile.

 

X

 

“Hey,” Charles greets as Erik stomps into their shared quarters later that night. He straightens from his slump on the bed, puts down the journal he’s scribbling in, and asks impatiently, “Well?”

“Well, what?” Erik doesn’t meet his eyes as he putters around to what could be loosely called their kitchen. It’s more of a tiny cove where the wall bends outwards enough to fit a mini-refrigerator and a sink. They take most of their meals in the mess hall, but when it’s this late at night, they normally just pilfer snacks they have stowed away.

“Well, how was your Drift?” Erik’s giving off a distinctive _I want to be alone_ vibe, so Charles doesn’t dip into his mind to see, as he usually would. Instead, he waits patiently for Erik to tell him.

Erik fetches a tin of crackers that sits on top of the fridge, meticulously washes his hands, and then carries the tin back to the bed. When he sits down by Charles’ feet and offers him a cracker, Charles knows that Erik doesn’t mind talking. Not tonight. In fact, from the frayed edges of his mind, he might even need an outlet.

“Tell me,” Charles says softly, tucking his pen behind his ear and scooting closer.

Erik is silent for a long while. Then he toes his boots off and tucks his feet under Charles’ thigh for warmth. “It was fine,” he says. Then, almost before those words have left his mouth, he shakes his head. “No, it wasn’t.”

“It’s only your first Drift with Alex,” Charles tries. “It’s a good sign that you were even able to get the neural bridge to form at all. With practice and time, you’ll be able to form a stronger bond.”

“It’s not that. The bridge was strong. We’re Drift-compatible. But it was...” Erik’s face twists in regret and anger. He gestures wordlessly to his head, and Charles takes the permission to open up his telepathy and sink into Erik’s mind and memories.

Drifting is confusing and overwhelming and dizzyingly fast. Reading a Drift through memories is even more so. Luckily, Charles has excellent control over his telepathy, so he manages to keep a hold of himself and slow everything down so he can read the situation properly, instead of being slammed down with a swarm of emotions and thoughts not his own.

_Alex on the left, Erik on the right. Raven’s steady voice initiating the countdown. One second of silence and then chaotic, bursting noise._

He already knows Erik’s mind backwards and forwards, perhaps better than his own. He focuses instead on what comes through Alex’s connection, what Erik sees, though he takes care not to intrude too deeply—Alex hasn’t given him permission to dig into his mind, and Charles respects that boundary, only glancing far enough to see what Erik tries to show him.

_Two blond boys running through the streets, stealing through the shadows for cover. Alex and his brother. Then an older Alex sparring with a tall, lithe black boy with a brilliant smile--Armando. Red Darwin, a machine that becomes their second home. Three successful missions. Then--the terrible dread of something going wrong. Screaming. Fear. Pain. Horror. Waking up numb with cold. A face above his--Erik’s. Armando? But he already knows. Still--please, Armando--? Charles kneeling by his head now. We’re here. Alex, you’re safe, we’re here, except all he can think is **they’re too late, Armando’s gone, they’re too late.**_

_Alex in his quarters. Alex on the anti-Kaiju walls, straddling a girder, looking down and wondering what it might be like to fall. Burning resentment that turns into grief that turns back into resentment, an endless cycle, and he’s exhausted of it, exhausted of being bitter when he knows there’s nothing he could have done, nothing they could have done. But he can’t stop from hating them, just a little. Or from hating himself._

Charles pulls free. The guilt that rushes up is both his own and Erik’s. They sit in silence for a moment.

Then Charles says, “That’s not Onslaught.” He hadn’t recognized the Conn-Pod’s widened display, or its equipment setup.

Erik nods. “They gave us the last empty Jaeger they have. Blue Glory. Restored Mark-4. Onslaught is...” He shrugs.

Onslaught is theirs. And, more to the point, she’s inoperable. All her systems are intact and in pristine condition, the fact that they’re slightly outdated notwithstanding. But the neural handshake initiation programs are shot, and no one can figure out why. The popular theory was that after what had happened in their last mission, Charles’s telepathy had overloaded the systems, burned the neural bridge past its capacity, and wrought irreparable damage on the Jaeger’s ability to hold a Drift. Onslaught can’t be used again, and Charles aches at the thought. It’s only a matter of time before the Jaeger Program runs out of funding, and the engineers get desperate enough to start cannibalizing Onslaught’s parts for the working Jaegers. He dreads the day.

He tries a smile. “Mark-4. Moving up in the world.”

Erik shrugs. “It’ll take a few tries to get used to the systems.” He pops a square cracker into his mouth and chews slowly, his eyes fixed on the cabinet across the room. Charles nicks a cracker from the tin in his hand and takes a bite, shifting close enough for their shoulders to touch.

Quietly, he says, “He knows how sorry we are.”

Erik’s jaw tightens. “He knows everything.” It’s impossible to hide anything from the Drift, after all.

Still, Charles says, “I feel like we ought to apologize.”

“We already did. Multiple times. And he said he didn’t blame us.”

“But we know that’s not true.” That simmering anger, the sharp bitterness—they had both felt it. And Charles is afraid for Erik, because going out in a Jaeger with a partner who isn’t entirely devoted to protecting you is the last thing you want.

“I’ll be fine,” Erik says in answer to Charles’ unvoiced thought. “I can handle Alex.”

Alex is a friend, Charles reminds himself. They trusted him for years before, and they can trust him now.

Pushing away those worries, he turns to another question. “And you? Are you okay with going out again?” _You haven’t jockeyed in almost five years. And now—with a new copilot, a new machine—_

 _I’ll be fine._ The regret and guilt in Erik’s mind are overshadowed by the restless impatience that has been building daily for the five years that they’ve been grounded. He’s more than ready to go again. Soon he’ll reclaim his title as Jaeger pilot. Soon he’ll Drift again.

Charles buries the sharp pang of jealousy before Erik catches it through their bond. Forcing a smile, he says, “Good. Then I can finally stop worrying about you murdering recruits.”

Erik smiles, too. “Come with me tomorrow. We’re firing up Blue Glory again. You can see it firsthand.”

Part of Charles wants to. Watching a Jaeger operate is never anything short of magnificent. But the idea of Erik piloting again without him burns, as much as he knows it’s neither of their faults, and he doesn’t think he can handle seeing it. So he says apologetically, “I wish I could, but I’m expecting some lab results to come in. I’ll be busy all day.”

Erik nods, thankfully picking up none of the disappointment-longing-sadness he’s shielding away. “All right.”

“All right.”

 

X

 

That night, he dreams of the Drift. He dreams of burning metal and torn circuitry. He tastes salty seawater in his mouth and hears someone screaming—it’s Erik, and there is agony in his voice. Charles tries to twist around to see him, but something holds him locked in place—the restraints of his Drivesuit where it’s hooked up to the Jaeger. With a struggle, he yanks hard enough at the connections to loosen them enough for him to move, and then he turns his head to his right, where Erik is dangling in his own suit, limp with pain.

 _Erik_ , he tries to say, but there’s something wrong with the neural bridge. They’re out of alignment, and the Drift’s broken. He reaches out with his telepathy instead, and then everything is a haze of pain and fear and confusion, and he lets out a hoarse yell as Erik’s agony reflects back to him.

Onslaught shudders. Seawater rushes in through the gaping holes in the hull. Panic consumes him. They’re going to drown. They have to release the Conn-Pod or they’ll drown.

He twists to try to release himself from his connecting harness, and that is when the entire Jaeger tilts wildly. A Kaiju eye appears in the crack of the Conn-Pod, and Charles screams as the harness suddenly releases and he falls through the crack and into the blackness, falls and falls and falls—

 

X

 

Erik has just returned to his quarters, hoping to find Charles already home and ready for dinner, when the alarm sounds.

For a moment, he hesitates. Then he remembers that he’s a pilot again, that he may be deployed and needs to be ready if Shaw decides to send Blue Glory out, and then he runs up to the bridge at a sprint, doubling his pace when he hears the whispers: _a double event, two of them out there, making land fast_.

When he arrives, breathless, Alex is already there, crossing his arms and looking mutinous.

“What’s happening?” Erik asks. “Are we going?”

Alex shakes his head angrily. “No. We’re grounded.”

“ _Grounded_? There’s two Kaiju out there, aren’t there?”

‘“And three other Jaegers equipped to handle the threat,”’ Alex answers, in a clear, mocking imitation of Shaw. “We’re too new, he said.”

“Too—” Erik scoffs incredulously. He has years of experience under his belt. Alex does, too, and between the two of them, they have eleven Kaiju kills at least.

 _Of course_ , the logical side of him adds, in a voice that always sounds curiously like Charles, _piloting a Jaeger with one partner is a unique experience. Piloting it with another partner could be very, very different._ They might not instantly function perfectly together. They have to have time to learn each other’s strengths and flaws. It would be foolhardy to allow them onto the battlefield before they’re ready.

Damn it. He hates it when Shaw is right.

He brushes away the thought and hurries up the bridge to where the Marshall looms over the LOCCENT central station, where Raven is seated behind the console. The usual Rangers have already been deployed: Logan and Kitty in Shadow Wolverine, Azazel and Janos—Azazel from Vladivostok and Janos from the Lima Shatterdome before this—in Wind Blade, and the brother and sister duo from France, Luc and Clara, in Bayonne Strident. The computers announce in those cool, neutral tones: “ _Initiating neural handshake_ ,” and technicians rush around on last-minute system checks. Erik stops behind Raven’s seat, far enough away that Shaw, with all his attention focused on the viewscreen, doesn’t see him.

He looks up at the viewscreen himself and spots the two red-outlined forms that represent Kaiju nearing the coastline at alarming speeds. Both register as Category IV. This is serious.

Alex stops by his side. Erik spares him a glance and says under his breath, “Get yourself ready.”

“We’re not going out,” Alex replies, shaking his head. “The Marshall said.”

Erik watches as Shadow Wolverine deploys, followed by Wind Blade and Bayonne Strident in quick succession. The two Kaiju spot them immediately and whirl in their paths to intercept, moving with reckless, impossible speed.

“We may not have a choice,” he says grimly.

 

X

 

One afternoon, they sit in the mostly-empty mess hall after hours and pass around a dusty old bottle of wine. Alcohol is forbidden in the Shatterdome, but Logan has his ways.

“You couldn’t even get anything good,” Erik accuses even as he takes another swig from the bottle. Beside him, Charles leans into his shoulder and giggles. “We’re stuck with this shit.”

“Suck my dick, Lehnsherr,” Logan slurs. He’s chewing on the end of an unlit cigar.

“Actually that’s reserved for me,” Charles says primly, straightening to pluck the bottle out out Erik’s lax fingers. He sways a little as he drinks. His telepathy is leaking, shrouding them all in a thin blanket of warm contentment.

Alex exchanges a glance with Armando, both of their grins a little manic around the edges. They’ve finally climbed the ranks into the upper echelon of Rangers, and this is what they find—a bunch of lunatics who haven’t drank in so long that two sips of a five dollar bottle of wine renders them wasted.

That’s not to say he still can’t believe he’s sitting in the same room as the practically legendary Onslaught team, not to mention the Shadow Wolverine duo. He’s pretty sure that’s the Wind Blade team across the room, playing a silent game of cards.

Armando knows him well enough by now to know what he’s thinking, even when they’re left outside each other’s heads, and his grin turns fond. Alex knows he can’t believe it either. They’re here. They’ve made it. Together.

“Don’t you dare start making out,” Kitty warns, raising a threatening finger. Despite her tiny frame, Alex figures that she could take them all on right now and win. “I had to bleach my eyes after last time.”

Erik flips her off. “Fuck off, Pryde, I saw you swapping spit with, uh, what’s her name—”

“You did not!” Kitty snaps, though she flushes bright red. “And swapping spit, really, who the hell even says that anymore?”

Charles laughs at Erik’s expression. “It is rather outdated, darling.”

“Whatever,” Erik says dismissively, and then twists his fingers into the front of Charles’ shirt and hauls him in for a kiss. Charles melts into it at once with a sigh, his telepathy fluctuating gently over them like a warm wave.

Alex is pretty sure he sees tongue.

“Ugh,” Kitty says, but there’s no mistaking her underlying fondness beneath the mock disgust.

“Get a damn room,” Logan mutters.

“So what about you two, then?” Kitty says, and it takes Alex a moment to realize that she’s talking to him and Armando. He tears his gaze away from his copilot to find Kitty leering at them.

“What about us two what?” Alex asks blankly, but Armando gives a small laugh.

“No,” he says, ruefully amused, “nothing like that.”

“Really?” Kitty seems honestly surprised. “I would’ve thought otherwise, especially with all the eyefucking going on.” She waggles her eyebrows. “You ought to give it a try. They say it helps with the _connection_.”

Armando laughs again while Alex sputters, “W-What, does that mean you and— _him_?”

Logan smirks around his cigar. “Maybe not. Maybe so.”

Kitty flips her hair over her shoulder with a wicked grin. “Either way, aren’t you glad we’re not like these two assholes?” She nods to Erik and Charles, who appear to have forgotten the rest of the world exists beyond themselves.

“We’ll think about it,” Armando tells her in his usual calm, unflappable way, and when he shoots Alex another private, slow grin, the curl of warmth in Alex’s stomach has nothing to do with wine or telepathy at all.

 

X

 

Hank has to physically yank Charles out of the Drift, tearing the headpiece away and holding him down in place while Charles shakes violently. Charles doesn’t even hear Hank calling his name frantically, still lost in the aftershocks of the alien Drift and the overload of foreign information flooding his system.

He snaps out of it just as Hank says, “I’m getting Erik, I’ll be right back.”

“No!” Charles protests, pushing himself into a sitting position. That’s odd. When did he end up on the floor? “I’m fine.”

Hank’s face can’t go white, but his regular blue is looking paler than normal. “I’m not so sure.”

“I’m fine,” Charles repeats, a little more sharply than it probably warrants. It’s not Hank’s fault that he’s weary of repeating himself. “I need to speak with Shaw right away.”

“I don’t think you should be moving,” Hank tells him. There’s a beat of silence, and then his scientific curiosity wins out. “So you were successful. You Drifted with a Kaiju.”

Charles can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. It probably makes him look a little loopy but he hardly cares. “Yes. Their minds, Hank—it’s _incredible_.”

“What did you see?”

Charles sobers immediately, and it’s his turn to be silent for a beat. “Everything,” he answers at last, “everything we think we know is wrong.”

 

X

 

It takes Raven about three days to figure things out, and in her usual, eloquent way she gives Charles some pristine advice. “Would you please just get on with it and fuck each other’s brains out before everyone _else_ on base loses their goddamn minds.”

Needless to say, she’s very helpful when she wants to be.

 

X

 

The first bunker Charles reaches is already jammed full, and all he glimpses are hundreds of frightened faces peering out at him before the heavy iron door slams shut. He stands still long enough to almost be knocked over and trampled by a few hysterical members of the crowds rushing by. They’re all rats in a trap, scurrying through a maze in search of cheese. Or in this case, shelter.

Across the city, unearthly crashes echo through the buildings, coming from the direction of the harbor. The Kaiju must have made landfall. People are already dying.

It’s funny, he thinks to himself as he runs, letting the flow of the crowd direct him down several city blocks, he’s not even worried about the Kaiju catching up to him like he knows they will eventually. Erik, however, on the other hand.

Erik’s going to kill him.


	3. Connection

X

 

Alex wants to hate himself for thinking this, but sometimes the worst part about this is that he’ll never know what Armando wanted him to do.

_Whatever happens, I need you to do one thing for me, okay?_

“What,” Alex pleads through the dark to his ceiling on a particularly bad night, the corners of his eyes still damp from where he’d woken up sweating and shaking and crying from one of the nastier versions of the nightmares that plague him, reeling all over again from the way his mind had _torn_ when Armando had died, “what am I supposed to do?  Just tell me.   _Please_ just tell me.”

There’s never an answer. And who is he kidding, there never will be.

 

X

 

Erik first notices the headache a couple of minutes before Wind Blade topples. He’s rubbing fruitlessly at his forehead, thinking, _this is not the time for a tension headache, Lehnsherr, pull yourself together,_ when Azazel lets out a shout that sounds something like, “ _On the left—”_ and the rest of his words are swallowed by the deafening screech of claws on metal. On the screen, the colossal, red-and-gray form of Wind Blade slams on its back into the ocean, knocked flat by the momentum of the pouncing Kaiju.

Instantly, the room erupts into chaos, orders being flung about, Shaw shouting for calm, Raven gripping the microphone tightly in her fist as she demands status reports and damage estimates. All they get for a long moment is static, and Erik clenches his hands into fists by his side.

Then Janos rasps, “—uninjured, damages minimal. Getting up.”

Wind Blade stirs, begins to push to its feet. The Jaeger looks largely unharmed, except for a new dent on the breastplates. LOCCENT begins to let out a sigh in relief when the Kaiju bursts from the water again, visible on the on-screen live view, and rips devastating claws down Wind Blade’s front. Even with the poor visibility of the rain-whipped ocean, Erik can see the Jaeger’s torso being torn open like a can of beans. Someone lets out a shout of alarm. The Kaiju rears, closes its teeth around the Conn-Pod, squeezes.

The glass of the display of the pod cracks audibly. Both Janos and Azazel are yelling now as the metal around them crunches. “Eject!” Raven orders, her voice shaking ever-so-slightly. “ _Azazel, goddammit, teleport!”_

She shouldn’t be here, Erik thinks, everything in him clenched tight with cold fear for the lives of fellow pilots, of something close to friends. Raven’s too close to this for objectivity. But as the J-Tech Chief, she must remain at her post. There’s no leaving now, no hiding from the reality that is playing out on-screen.

Adrenaline races like fire through his veins. He can’t stand here while other pilots are out there, battling for their lives and the lives of this entire city and losing. Not when he is finally, finally in a position to help.

Shaw flicks a cool glance at him as he strides over. “No.”

“You see what’s going on out there,” Erik says, his voice low and tense. “You need another Jaeger.”

“We have two active,” Shaw says, returning his attention to the screen. “If Wind Blade goes down, the others will pick up the slack.” Leaning down to the microphone, he adds, “Shadow Wolverine, do not attempt to assist. You are to remain by the coastline and protect the city only if necessary. Under no circumstances are you to risk damaging yourself.”

That’s the thing about Sebastian Shaw. He’s not afraid of collateral damage. In fact, he doesn’t seem to care at all, so long as the fight is won. But this fight doesn’t look even close to being won. It’s on a downward spiral, and Erik can see everything going very bad, very fast.  

One loud beep sounds, followed by a second. “Wind Blade is empty,” Raven reports, her tone tightly controlled. “Escape pods have been ejected. Recovery protocols unnecessary, Azazel will teleport them both back to the Shatterdome.”

On the screen, Wind Blade begins to sink beneath the waves. The Kaiju that has torn it apart— _Leatherback_ , reads its on-screen designation—slithers off it and disappears into the dark waters.

Barely half a mile away, Bayonne Strident struggles to stay upright. The Jaeger’s right hand is mangled, and the second Kaiju—designated Otachi—has torn a massive chunk from its right side. Its stride slows and falters, even as Luc and Clara attempt to turn, trying to follow the rapid, sinuous movements of the Kaiju through the water.

Nothing for a long moment.

Then Otachi bursts from the ocean on Bayonne’s weak right side and latches its massive jaws around the Conn-Pod. Its huge yellow teeth grind down, and for a second—a precious, hopeful, terrible second—it looks as if the metal will hold. Then, with a horrific crunch, the entire pod collapses in on itself, crumpled by the power of the Kaiju’s maw.

LOCCENT goes dead silent. Nobody moves, nobody breathes. The only sound is from the video feed, still live with the crash of water and the groan of twisting metal. And above it all echoes the high, insidious whine of a flatline.

“They’re...they’re gone,” Raven says finally, trembling.

Another pause, this one cut short by Shaw, who turns smartly on his heel toward Erik. The Marshall is a ruthless, sometimes cruel man. But even he knows when to change course.

“Get down to Bay 3,” he commands, his voice cracking like a whip. “You’re out in five.”

Erik grabs Alex by the arm and runs.

 

X

 

The worst thing about being a Ranger, in Charles’s humble opinion, is having to be alert and prepared to go at any moment of any day. There can never be a minute of rest, because when a Kaiju is heading straight for a city of millions, every second counts.

Tonight, the call comes at 2:34 in the morning. In a split-second, Charles is climbing down the ladder of his top bunk silently and begins to get dressed. He doesn’t even have to rub sleep out of his eyes; he wasn’t sleeping anyway, still too wound up from their fight earlier to relax. Normally, he’d be tucked in by Erik’s side in Erik’s bunk, pressed tightly together so that neither of them would fall off the narrow mattress. But tonight, there’s a distance between them, built by harsh words and angry, hurt feelings. Charles is still a bit miffed, and he knows Erik is, too. He wishes they had time to smooth away the rift, but they have work to do now. Personal issues have to wait.

Once he has his shirt on, Charles leans down to shake Erik awake. It’s a testament to how tired Erik is that he isn’t already dressed and ready to go; he’s always faster than Charles, up as soon as the alarm comes in, without fail. But tonight, Charles has to call his name twice before he jolts awake, groggy and confused. Then he hears the alarm and bolts from bed, grabbing for his clothes.

They don’t speak as they prepare. As Charles slips on his battered old watch, he ventures out a thread of his telepathy and finds Erik’s mind still sharp with irritation. Everything in him screams for space, for time. But they can’t have either, not when they’re about to Drift together. It would be dangerous to go in with this sort of friction between them, if Erik can’t bury it properly.

“Erik?” he says aloud.

“We’ll talk about it later,” Erik replies roughly, brushing past Charles to the door. “We have work to do.”

And that’s that.

When they reach the Drivesuit Room, Raven’s voice echoes through the chamber as the technicians help them into their suits. Her brief contains all the pertinent information: a Category III Kaiju, codename Knifehead, twenty miles from the coast and closing. Their orders are to turn the Kaiju away, take the fight to sea, and destroy the beast before it makes landfall. Typical mission. Charles and Erik have faced these combat tasks seven times before, emerging victorious each time. This time will be no different, Charles tells himself. _Let’s go._

The Drift initiation is rocky for a couple of seconds before stabilizing. Underneath the pulsing length of their connection, Charles can feel Erik’s smoldering anger, but it’s been shoved away to the back of his mind. The memories of the fight the night before disappear into the reality of the present, and when they glance at each other just before Onslaught launches, their bridged minds are calm and focused.

Outside, a gale lashes across the ocean’s surface, slicing lightning across the black sky and sending deafening cracks of thunder rolling across the wide expanse of water. Wind blows the sheets of rain almost sideways, making the world beyond Onslaught’s huge mainscreen display nearly impossible to make out. If not for their radar and heat-tracking systems, they would be more blind than not.

_Never could be good weather,_ Charles thinks ruefully, or maybe the thought comes from Erik. It’s always hard to tell in the Drift.  

They take simultaneous breaths and step into the storm.

 

X

 

“Maybe we should,” Alex says one morning, as casually as he can manage. His tone is even, but his heart is in his throat. He’s never felt this nervous, not even when he piloted a Jaeger for his first time, not even when they first showed him Armando’s profile and told him who was going to be sharing his mind. He’s glad they’re in the middle of stretching exercises, because it at least gives him something physical to do so he won’t pace and look like a panicked idiot.

Armando slowly leans down to touch his toes and holds the position for thirty seconds. “Should what?” he asks as he straightens, a slight sheen of sweat touching the skin of his arms, his neck. Alex looks at him and then looks away.

_Come on, Summers,_ he thinks. _If Erik fucking Lehnsherr had the balls to do it, you can do it, too._

“We should try, um...” Breathe. C’mon. One word at a time. “You know. What Kitty said. You remember? About making a better connection by...you know.” Fuck. Why is he so bad at words? He’s fucking turning into Logan.

But Armando—of course Armando understands what he’s trying to say. Armando always has a way of knowing his mind, even outside the Drift. Maybe that’s why Alex likes him so much. He’s so easy to be around, and there are so few people in Alex’s life that can claim to be the same. Armando is simple and uncomplicated and always _present_. That’s something important, Alex knows. Words and promises are all well and good but _being there?_ There’s nothing that can replace that. Nothing.

Armando has gone completely still. For a second, Alex is afraid he’s fumbled it, afraid he’s destroyed their entire friendship in a handful of stupid, stammering sentences. But then Armando smiles, bright and wide, and says, “I wasn’t aware our connection needed to be better. But I wouldn’t turn down a good meal. Dinner? At 1900 hours?”

“We always have dinner together anyway.” Alex frowns. Has Armando missed the point?

His partner’s grin widens knowingly, and Alex realizes, no, he hasn’t. He hasn’t missed the point at all. “I mean, you want to have dinner at my place? I don’t have much—some bread, cheese, maybe some sweets. But it would be nice.”

“Nice.” Alex swallows, not quite able to meet Armando’s eyes. “Yeah, man. That would be great.”

“Good.” Armando hops to his feet and wipes the sweat off his face with his workout towel. Slapping the towel against Alex’s shoulder, he says, “Then I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah, see you.”

As soon as the door shuts behind him, Alex scrambles to his feet and bolts for the showers. He’s got a date to get ready for, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t excited and yet terrified out of his mind.

 

X

 

The first time they attempt to Drift again after Knifehead, the neural bridge collapses four seconds in, and when Erik yanks himself free of the restraints with his powers, not bothering to wait for the electronic release, he finds Charles hanging limp in his Drivesuit, blood streaming from his nose, unresponsive. Terror swamps him. He rips Charles from the Jaeger connectors with a jerk of his hand and hurriedly lowers him to the floor, half-stumbling under Charles’ weight. Cradling Charles in his arms, he tears off both of their helmets, presses shaking fingers to Charles’ neck, and feels out a pulse. His heartbeat is rapid and unsteady under Erik’s fingers, but it’s there, thank God. It’s there.

Somewhere, Raven is shouting, her voice thick with fear and alarm, and Shaw is barking out orders, but Erik can’t tear his eyes from Charles’ pale face. He wipes blood from Charles’ cheek from where it’s dripping from his nose and says, “Charles? Come on, _liebling,_ open your eyes. Talk to me. _Charles_.”

Blue eyes flutter open, and the vice around Erik’s heart eases, leaving him weak and shaky. “Charles? Are you okay?”

“I’m...My head is killing me,” Charles croaks, shutting his eyes again. Then he opens them and raises two trembling fingers to his nose and upper lip. “Am I bleeding?”

“Your nose,” Erik says, wiping more blood away on his glove. “What the hell happened in there?"

Charles’ telepathy, Hank explains afterwards. It’s not reacting well with the Drift initiation procedures. It has something to do with Charles’ overload a month prior—and here Erik looks away, ashamed and guilty, even though Charles keeps telling him that it wasn’t his fault.

“I can’t tell you exactly what’s happening,” Hanks says apologetically. “But it looks like it’s going to be dangerous for you to try to Drift, at least right now. You wore yourself out to an unprecedented degree against Knifehead, and it might take time for your telepathy to recover. Or...”

“Or?” Erik prompts impatiently.

Hank hesitates until Erik glares sharply at him. “Or it might not recover,” Hank finishes quickly, eyeing Erik’s scowl. “I’m not sure. The human brain is a tricky thing, telepathy even more so. But I saw data of your brainwaves, Charles, and they were off-the-charts.”

Erik furrows his brow. “That’s good, right?”

“Off-the-charts in a bad way,” Hank amends, shaking his head. “Erik, your brain activity was normal. But Charles...” He hesitates again. “If you try to Drift again, I can’t guarantee your safety.”

“I know,” Charles says quietly. He reaches out and takes Erik’s hand, and Erik starts in surprise; they’re by no means a secret, but they do normally keep strict boundaries between what is private and what is personal. Charles is gripping his hand so tightly that he can feel his circulation cutting off. Bad news then.

Hank nods sympathetically. Normally, when doctors appear to empathize, Erik finds them disingenuous and vaguely manipulative. But Hank’s compassion is real. He says “I’m sorry” as if his own heart has been torn.

Erik swallows. He already suspects what this means. But he says anyway, “For the sake of the non-telepaths and non-scientists in this room, what does this mean?”

“It means,” Hank explains, “attempting another Drift could result in another one of these episodes. And the next one might be worse, with more severe symptoms and long-term effects. I can’t in good conscience clear you to try again.”

Charles clutches at Erik’s hand like he is the only tether holding Charles to reality. Erik can feel his pain-grief-fear through the thrumming contact of their minds. “It means,” Charles says unsteadily, “I can’t pilot again.”

 

X

 

Drifting with Erik is the exact opposite of Drifting with Armando, something that Alex is painfully aware of immediately after they establish their first neural bridge. Armando was calm and steady, a boulder in the center of a swift, relentless river; a shelter in a wild storm.

Erik is eclectic, his thoughts spiraling out in all directions as soon as their minds meet and Alex is swamped with flashes of images—

_An old brass menorah sitting on the sill, a woman’s steady hand—Mama, Mama—guiding his to light each candle. Sitting quietly in the back of the synagogue listening to the old prayers and trying not to fidget. A letter in the mail, he’s to go away for school, it’s a scholarship to a place Mama could never afford. I don’t want to go. I **don’t**. He goes. He doesn’t fit in, not with these new people in this new place but he’ll show them, he’ll **show them** —_

_Graduating at the top of his class with full honors, Mama at the ceremony beaming proudly. For awhile he is home, where he belongs. Just him and Mama. Quiet. Peaceful. He’s grown into his powers, they’re under his control and he can do anything he wants because he is invincible. A knock on the door, hello son my name is Sebastian Shaw and I’m just like you. A military program. Top secret. Classified. Classified. Classified. You should go, liebling, serve the country. I’m proud of you. I love you._

_Charles. Charles. Charles Charles Charles Charles CHARLES CHARLES CHARLES—_

_The Marshall’s office. Why didn’t you tell me. **Why didn’t you tell me**. I meant to tell you, son, but we had that Category II to deal with. It would’ve been distracting._

_You had no right. She’s gone, she’s gone, Mama—_

_Alles ist gut._

Alex surfaces with a sharp intake of breath, panting like he’s run a mile, his heart still aching with a loss that isn’t his own. It’s practically a novel experience.

“Sorry,” Erik says with a shrug, casual in the way only an experienced Ranger is about the Drift baring all, unwanted or not, “used to Drifting with a telepath. My mind is a little messy.”

 

X

 

 

X

 

They don’t sleep together after the first time they Drift, and they don’t sleep together after their first successful kill, or their second, or their third. There never was any reckless, celebratory sex (that comes later, when they’re as comfortable with each other’s skin as they are with each other’s minds) nor were there ever any passionate declarations, desperate hopeful promises.

They never needed any of that, not when Erik first pushes Charles down onto his thin mattress in the bottom bunk after a quiet day of routine check up maintenance on Onslaught that didn’t even require them to leave the hangar and they both know viscerally, with neither spoken word nor shared thought, how they feel about each other. There’s an old joke about Ranger copilots, how nothing ever needs to be said between them while they live in each other’s heads, but this is different than that. This goes deeper than thought. This is inborn knowledge. Erik doesn’t need to think in order to breathe, and he doesn’t need to think in order to love Charles.

Charles, who burns hot beneath him as they kiss, squirming back further onto the bed as Erik splays himself over him, settling his weight on top of him and licking his way into Charles’ mouth as Charles fists both hands into the back of Erik’s shirt, pulling him down and in, holding him close. His telepathy sparks between them, because Charles never truly leaves Erik’s mind, even when they’re not holding hands in the Drift, and Erik nearly feels light-headed as they kiss, a myriad of senses passing between them in an endless loop. It’s right.

“Erik,” Charles murmurs with a small, hitched breath when Erik moves down and away, kissing and sucking at Charles’ throat. He can feel the telepath’s pulse racing, and Charles gives a full-body jerk when Erik digs his teeth in lightly at that exact spot, worrying the soft flesh until a small bruise forms. His mark.

Their clothes come off. It takes some maneuvering, in the cramped space of Erik’s bottom bunk, Charles laughing when at one point Erik sits up too fast, frustrated with his shirt, and knocks his head against the flimsy metal bars that hold the top bunk. For revenge Erik pulls Charles’ shirt off in one swift motion but pins his legs down and apart before he can get his pants off, pressing the heel of one hand up against Charles’ obvious arousal, wet and thick and trapped beneath the fabric.

Charles’ pupils are blown wide with lust, and he lets out a whimper that goes straight to Erik’s cock, rocking up into Erik’s hand as best as he can while trapped in the awkward position Erik holds him in—pressed down with his legs spread wide. His hands fist in the bed sheets, knuckle-white, and then he moans when Erik begins to rub him.

“Please,” he pants out, his head dropping back down onto Erik’s pillow, “god, Erik, please—”

Erik groans at the sight Charles makes, leaning back down to drown it out with another searing kiss, lips and tongues sliding together. Charles, he imagines, would be all pale, freckled skin if it weren’t for the intricate tattoos covering every last inch of skin across his chest and down his torso, spread out on his collar bones to both his shoulders and along each of his arms, all the way down to his finely-boned wrists. Erik knew they were there, even though they’re usually covered with neat, long-sleeved button downs and even before _this_ , what they’re doing now, but it’s another thing to see them beyond Charles’ memories of the stinging pain of getting them outlined and inked, an endeavor that took several weeks. They’re Kaiju, every last one of them, tangled together on Charles’ body and all of their mouths open in silent roars, rising up out of waves that curl wildly across Charles’ stomach. Erik traces the teeth of the largest, right in the center of Charles’ chest, drawing a deft line with his fingertips across its broad forehead and along the rigid bone of its horns. Charles lies still, letting him touch and watching his face.

_Beautiful_ , Erik tells him, kissing him softly.

_Most people don’t like them_ , Charles answers, half of an explanation, _I’ve covered myself in monsters_.

_You make them seem more like art_ , Erik replies, biting Charles’ lower lip gently, _old, forgotten myths from a time gone by._ Charles’ cheeks flush at the intimacy of Erik’s tone, his gaze sliding away even as he smiles, soft and private. They’re not done with this discussion, not by far, but right now they have more pressing matters to resolve. Erik lifts himself out of the way so Charles can kick his pants off and then start tugging at Erik’s and it’s Erik’s turn to laugh as Charles fumbles, drawing back just a little to rest their foreheads together.

_Do something about this_ , Charles orders, and Erik grins as he complies, latching onto his zipper with his power and tugging the offending layer off and away and finally it’s just them, pressed close together, mind and body.

_I don’t have to say it because you already know_ , Erik tells him quietly.

_I’d prefer that you did anyway_ , Charles whispers.

_I know_ , Erik answers in fond amusement, “I love you.”

Charles shivers beneath him and the words echo between them, solidifying their bond into something near tangible, building them permanent places in one another’s minds and an unbreakable link that nothing will shatter, because they were bound together even before the help of machinery that built their neural bridge, transcending the normal limits of Ranger copilots with Charles’ telepathy and Erik’s open reception to it.

After that they move as one, as if they were linked together by Drivesuits and connectors, perfectly in sync.

Erik lifts a hand and calls over the small tin of lube buried in his drawer across the small room, and when it smacks lightly into his palm Charles shifts, drawing one leg up to grant Erik easy access, unashamed but still flushed from his neck down his chest—the tattoos hide most of it but Erik can _feel_ it—to his hard, leaking cock that smears a small trail of precome across Erik’s thigh. He shudders when Erik slips one slick finger inside him, letting out a shaky breath.

“You’re so good,” Erik breathes into his ear, sliding his finger back and forth inside the warm heat, stretching Charles open, “you’re so good for me—”

“More,” Charles sighs, shifting his legs open that little bit wider as his eyes flutter shut, one hand coming up to rest on Erik’s back, “I need more, I need you—” _I need more of you, I need more of you inside me—_

Erik is panting now too, so hard that it hurts as he pushes a second finger inside Charles. Through their link he can feel faint echoes of the burning stretch as he works Charles open, scissoring his fingers slowly to ease the pain. Charles’ forehead is slick with sweat, eyes closed and lips parted, gasping out small sounds with every thrust of Erik’s fingers, hips jerking up into Erik’s hand reflexively.

“Come on, darling,” Erik murmurs in between breaths, finding the little bundle of nerves that sends a spark through Charles’ body like a livewire, blue eyes opening wide and the hand on Erik’s back digging fingernails into his skin, “let me see you, _liebling_.”

Charles gives an aborted sob, the sound sticking in his throat as he arches off the bed, plastering himself against Erik as much as he possibly can. “Erik,” he says, the name reverberating silently between them as Charles whispers Erik’s name directly to him, “ _fuck me_.”

Erik has experienced all levels of closeness with Charles but they pale in comparison as soon as Erik sits up, withdrawing his fingers from Charles’ slick hole, smearing lube on his cock with one shaking hand and then lines them up carefully, both of them moaning in unison as soon as the tip of his cock brushes Charles’ entrance. It takes trust to allow someone in your head, to lay yourself bare and allow nothing to remain hidden, but that’s all in your head—this is the physical, two bodies becoming one as Erik sinks down into Charles, working his hips carefully to thrust in deeper and deeper. He settles down over Charles once again, pushing in until he’s fully seated inside Charles’ body and draped over him like a blanket.

_Alright?_ Erik asks him, resting his forehead against Charles’ like before. He’s trembling slightly with the effort of holding back, from not snapping his hips forward again and again, from not fucking Charles up the mattress.

Charles has a death grip on Erik’s forearm, and his other hand has found its way back to Erik’s spine, at odds with its fellow as he strokes the ridges of Erik’s vertebra softly. _More than_ , he whispers, breathing against Erik’s cheek. His chest is heaving, probably making the Kaiju painted across him look alive, and his hard cock is trapped between them and leaking continuously, having only softened for a moment upon Erik’s initial thrust. His mind crackles across Erik’s like lightning. _Better if you move._

Erik can do that. He braces himself against the mattress, elbows on either side of Charles, and begins to rock into him, thrusting in and out of Charles’ hot, tight hole while Charles wraps his legs around Erik’s waist, drawing Erik in closer and clinging, his hand on Erik’s back pressing down. Erik switches from short, shallow thrusts to long, deep glides, slamming his hips forward and moaning as Charles clenches around him, their skin dragging together.

He keeps their foreheads pressed together even though physical contact isn’t necessary for him to be able to feel the low thrum of Charles’ mind against his own—this time, it’s _all_ about the material. They pant into each other’s mouths as they kiss, tongues clashing and teeth scraping as they move together, and Erik wants to lap up every little sound that falls from Charles’ lips as Erik presses down on him physically and mentally—he wants to completely overwhelm the telepath and make him irrevocably _his_.

_Oh darling_ , Charles whispers in a fragmented thought, his needy arousal spiking their link like static and shaking his already tenuous control, _I already am._

Erik bites out another moan, speeding up despite his previous reluctance to take things fast for their first time, but he can’t help it. He wants Charles to lose his control and come undone but really it is Charles who does those things to _him_ , who fits against him perfectly and opens for him beautifully and who takes his breath away even when their lips aren’t sealed together. He snaps his hips forward, changing his angle so that his cock rubs directly over Charles’ prostate, made evident by how Charles stiffens beneath him, throwing his head back with a strangled cry.

They’re getting close, losing their synchronized rhythm as they near the edge, pushing each other closer and closer to the fall as Erik slams into Charles over and over again relentlessly, directing a torrent of filthy thoughts straight into Charles’ mind, while aloud he only seems to be able to manage, “Charles, Charles, fuck, _Charles_ —”

They come together, Erik’s hips stuttering once, twice, three more times before he buries himself deep inside Charles, filling him with white stickiness while Charles stripes their stomachs, coming with his cock still untouched. It’s like falling into the Drift, their minds tangling together and then branching impossibly outward, so that for a wild, confusing, post-orgasm moment Erik feels entirely what Charles does—his cock, sitting thick and heavy inside him while wetness slowly leaks out, dripping down his skin and making him shiver lightly, used.

“I love you,” Charles says, cradling Erik’s face with one hand while he repeats the words silently as well, soaking them into Erik’s very core, and in all his life Erik has never felt so complete and whole.

Without Charles, he realizes much later, he’s truly only half alive.


	4. Choices

X

 

Charles is used to caring for himself. He had grown up with a father who had been buried in his company, and who had, much later, after the first attack on San Francisco, been more unavailable than ever, helping the government launch its fledgling Jaeger Program. At first his mother had tried to pick up the slack, but she hadn’t known what to do with a boy who matured too quickly, and who, by his mutant status, had been a stigma on the family that she hadn’t been able to ever fully accept. In the end, she’d washed her hands of him, thinking--and Charles could hear it back then, and sometimes, when he closes his eyes, he can hear it even now--that if she simply ignored him, maybe he would go away.

He did go away, eventually. He went all the way to Oxford, where he stayed for four years and two degrees. He had been thinking of doing a doctorate, but then the newly-formed Pan Pacific Defense Corps had put out a call for Jaeger pilots. Only three months earlier, he and Raven had been in Canada for a quick vacation, some light skiing. Vancouver had nearly gone down in flames when the Kaiju designated Karloff had torn through the city. Charles and Raven had fled, terrified, for the shelters. They had been huddled in the darkness, pressed against a hundred other bodies, as the entire city shuddered on its foundations.

Later, they saw the news. Later, they saw the footage of a huge, powerful machine called Brawler Yukon, and later, they saw the corpse of the monster, lying limp and lifeless in the cold Vancouver streets.

Charles had barely known what a Jaeger was. But the PPDC had called, and the next day, he had been on a plane to Hong Kong, where they were building something called a Shatterdome.

Raven hadn’t been far behind.

Charles is used to caring only for himself and for Raven. That’s how it’s been his whole life. Leaning on someone else and worrying about someone else outside of the two of them is something he never learned to do. But meeting Erik— _knowing_ Erik, mind and body—has changed that. And now, as he sprints down the abandoned street, past a red light where a dozen empty cars blink their emergency lights, all he’s thinking is Erik and Alex and Blue Glory, and how he hopes they’re alright.

Shaw won’t send them out. They’re too new to each other to function as a true team, and sending Blue Glory out to battle would be dangerous and reckless. But if he knows Erik—and Charles knows him better than anyone—Erik will be chomping at the bit to go. And he can be very persuasive when he wants to be. If he’s out there now, with Alex, without proper preparations, linked in a Drift that has never been battle-tested...

He brushes away the thought. _Look at that, Xavier_ , he chides himself. _Always worrying over the stupidest things. Here you are in the street in five miles from the coastline, all the bunkers closed, a Kaiju closing in, and you’re worrying about Erik, who’s probably standing beside the Marshall right now directing attack efforts. Get your priorities straight._

Part of him wants desperately to reach out with his telepathy and make absolutely certain Erik’s alright. But if he does that, Erik will know. He’ll recognize Charles’ touch, realize that Charles isn’t in the Shatterdome at all, and he’ll go frantic trying to reach him. He’ll push to take Blue Glory out, and Charles can’t have that. He doesn’t want Erik risking himself like that. Not for Charles and his idiocy, Drifting with a Kaiju like that and expecting no consequences.

He stops to catch his breath in a narrow alley and wipes rain from his face. His clothes are sodden, his shoes soaked through. Every step feels heavy, and his heart is pounding painfully in his chest. He needs a plan. He needs somewhere to go.

From the distance comes the unmistakable, hair-raising shriek of a Kaiju, loud enough to pierce through the clatter of rain and thunder. Charles shivers and fights away the fear, ordering himself to remain calm. He’s going to be fine. His best bet is to find a structurally-sound, low-lying building to hide in. Hong Kong is a huge city. He’ll find someplace to be safe. He just needs to stay calm and rational about this.

Another shriek, this one horrifically close. Charles freezes, his back pressed against the alleyway, his eyes wide. Too close. There’s no way a Kaiju can travel that quickly. The other roar had come from miles away. This one sounds as if it’s around the corner.

Two? His breath seizes in his throat. Impossible. But there’s no dismissing the evidence. It’s improbable but possible, and maybe even predictable--a double event, like Hank had insisted. God, Charles should have paid more attention to Hank’s calculations. He should’ve _checked_.

Two Kaiju emerging from the Breach. Two Kaiju that are coming for him. 

He allows himself one moment of pure, blinding, gut-wrenching panic. Just one. Then he jerks himself from the alleyway and plunges back into the streets.

 

X

 

Alex shows up outside of Armando’s room ten minutes too early and feels more than a little ridiculous for it, standing awkwardly in the fortunately empty hall, wondering if he should just duck around the corner to wait or go back to his room or just knock and get it over with. Or would that make him look too desperate?

Maybe this is stupid, he probably shouldn’t have suggested this in the first place, clearly Xavier and Lehnsherr are on their own sort of level when it comes to Drifting and extracurricular—

The door opens and Armando is grinning at him. “I thought I felt you worrying out here.”

“Really?” Alex asks in blank shock. There have been studies about Jaeger pilots forming mind links outside the Drift, but he’s never been too sure on how legitimate the reports are.

“No, we haven’t Drifted nearly enough to form a bond like that,” Armando says with a small laugh, as if he’s reading Alex’s mind anyway, “though I hope that will change, and that we get to Drift a lot more.”

“Yeah,” Alex says, his mouth dry, “me too.”

“Why don’t you come in?” Armando says, holding his door open a little wider so that Alex can slip past him and step inside.

Armando’s issued room is just as small as cramped as Alex’s is—it’s a running joke on the base that all the money goes towards the Jaegers which is why everyone gets fucked over when it comes to the living quarters—but he’s certainly made it his own. Pictures of his family are tacked across the walls, ranging from serious group shots to candid silly ones. Alex knew that Armando has a lot of sisters, but it’s nice to see regular, normal pictures of them instead of the bits and snatches he catches in the Drift.

“They write me letters every week,” Armando says with a fond smile when he sees Alex looking, “I wish I had time to write them back, but I think they understand. It’s nice to get the mail, too.”

“Scott is probably too dumb to know how to spell his own name,” Alex replies, and they share a laugh. Already Alex feels slightly more relaxed than he did out in the hallway. This is Armando. If there is anyone Alex can feel completely comfortable with, it’s him.

Armando has arranged his room a lot like Alex’s, with the cot shoved up against the back wall and the desk sitting against the wall beside it to serve doubly as a nightstand. In lieu of a dresser, however, Armando has an actual old-fashioned pinball machine.

“Does it still work?” Alex asks, even though he already knows the answer. It’s just more polite to ask even though he’s seen it in the Drift; Armando carefully fixing it up in his spare time, restoring it to its former glory.

“Yep, lights up and everything,” Armando replies, a tiny note of pride trickling into his voice. “We could play, if you want. It’ll let us tally up points against each other with the right settings.”

Alex grins. “I’ve gotta warn you, don’t beat yourself up when I win. I play a pretty mean game of pinball.”

“Oh, we’ll see about that,” Armando shoots back with a laugh.

That’s when they get the call, summoned to the Drivesuit Room and deployed out against a Category III Kaiju, codename Knifehead, and they never really do get to play that game of pinball, or a million different other things that could’ve been.

 

X

 

The day Charles’ official transfer papers are finalized, cementing his relocation from the frontlines to the labs, Erik submits his own transfer request.

Shaw is incredulous. “Erik, be reasonable. We just lost two Rangers from just one battle, and I’m short on personnel as it is. Just because Xavier is unable to Drift doesn’t mean _you’re_ done. We’re going to find you a new copilot and you’re going to get right back out there.”

“No,” Erik says, very, very calmly. He stands at a relaxed parade rest in front of Shaw’s desk, arms folded neatly behind his back. “It’s Charles or nothing, Shaw. He is the only one I share the Drift with. No one else.”

“There will be others who you’ll be compatible with,” Shaw says, his lips pressed into a thin line. He isn’t happy. Erik couldn’t care less. “Charles Xavier is not the only person on the planet who is able to Drift with you, I guarantee it.”

“Charles Xavier is the only person I _want_ to Drift with,” Erik snaps, his calm fraying at the edges. He can feel Charles now, a low-level awareness of the telepath in the back of his mind. Normally Charles’ constant presence is a soothing balm on Erik’s rougher emotions but lately it’s been more of an ache.

It’s not Charles’ fault. He can’t hide anything from Erik, no matter how much he likes to pretend otherwise. The telepath is hurting, heartbroken by the fact that his Drifting days are over. He’s spent the last couple of days curled in on himself mentally as well as physically, sleeping and sleeping and sleeping in Erik’s bunk like he doesn’t even want to wake up. But he can withdraw with his telepathy all that he wants—he still can’t break their other link, formed by the Drift.

And Erik _aches_ for him.

Shaw must read all this or at least something close enough to it in Erik’s face, because he’s silent for a few long moments, surveying Erik with his unreadable gaze. He may be an asshole, but he’s a perceptive asshole, which almost makes him worse. “Not always can we get what we what,” he says evenly, “this fight is far larger than you and Xavier, no matter how _undying_ your devotion is to each other.”

“When my mother died, you didn’t tell me for a week,” Erik says, keeping such tight control over his voice that his entire back and shoulders have tensed up. “You didn’t even tell me she was dying, fielding all calls and intercepting my mail.”

“A poor decision on my part,” Shaw replies, “I’ve acknowledged it and apologized. We’ve been over this a thousand times, Erik, I thought we were past—”

“We will never be _past_ it,” Erik snaps, and Shaw’s desk creaks as all the metal bits and screws flex with Erik’s power. He forces himself to take a steadying breath, going back to the matter at hand. “You owe me this, Shaw. I’ll train all your recruits so that we don’t lose anyone on the battlefield again. Put my expertise to different use, just like you’ve done with Charles.”

Shaw doesn’t even bat an eye at Erik’s temporary loss of control, and he’s silent and still again for another long moment. Erik stares right back at him, nowhere close to intimidated by the Marshall’s piercing gaze. There are old rumors about how Shaw used to Drift, back in the infancy of the Jaeger program. Erik’s never seen the man get closer to a Jaeger than the mission control station, but it should make sense that the guy in charge has Drifted at least once in his career.

“We’re not finished with this discussion,” Shaw warns at last, irritating in his confidence that he’ll eventually get his way, “but for now, I’ll approve your transfer. Be in the Kwoon Combat Room at 0500 hours tomorrow morning and have a regimen ready. Dismissed.”

Erik leaves without further word, the door to Shaw’s office swinging shut behind him. He doesn’t feel triumphant. There’s no victory here. He just feels tired.

Charles is awake when he returns to their shared quarters, curled beneath the covers with his back pressed to the wall. Neither of them say anything as Erik mechanically strips down to his boxers and ducks low in order to crawl into the bunk, lifting the blankets so he can slide up close to Charles and tug him closer, tucking the telepath’s head beneath his chin and tangling their legs together. Charles comes readily enough, pressing his face into Erik’s throat with a soft sigh.

For awhile they just breathe together, the only sound in the room besides the ever-present hum of the air conditioner. Erik stares blankly at the wall, stroking Charles’ back slowly.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Charles says eventually, his lips brushing feather-light against Erik’s skin as he speaks.

“I wanted to,” Erik answers him.

Charles’ arms are currently tucked up against Erik’s chest, effectively trapping his hands, but he sends Erik the impression of squeezing his hand. “You already miss the Drift.”

“I’ll miss the Drift with _you_ ,” Erik corrects him quietly. “I’m not interested in Drifting with anyone else.”

Charles shakes his head, his soft, wavy hair brushing Erik’s chin. “You don’t have to martyr yourself for me because you think it’s your fault that I—”

“It _is_ my fault,” Erik cuts in sharply, and then exhales wearily. He doesn’t want to fight with Charles. Not right now, and not about this. “You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted in my head, Charles. That’s all the Drift’s ever been for me. You and me.”

Charles pulls back slightly so he can look up at Erik. He smiles, small and sad. “You’re not meant to be grounded, Erik. I love you and it shakes my soul that you would keep your mind just for me, but I can’t let you do that. I can’t let you clip your wings just for me.”

“Then what do you want me to do,” Erik whispers. His voice threatens to crack and he hates it, hates how vulnerable Charles makes him feel but it’s not just that—Charles makes him invincible, but without him...

“Train the recruits,” Charles says, wiggling one arm loose so he can reach up and brush Erik’s hair off his forehead deftly, “but promise me that if Shaw asks you to take a compatibility test with someone, you’ll do it.”

“But what about you,” Erik says in a desperate rush, “I can’t leave—I can’t—you—”

_It’s alright_ , Charles whispers, his telepathy unfolding gently in Erik’s mind like a flower blooming beneath the warmth of the sun, _we’ll still have this. We’ll still be us._

 

X

 

“You want _what_?” the Marshall asks, his brow creasing sharply.

Charles meets his gaze without flinching. “A Kaiju brain. And I don’t want it. I _need_ it.”

Shaw shakes his head. “Explain to me again. From the beginning.”

Again. Charles lets out a sharp breath in exasperation. “Sir, I’ve explained this to you three times already. I initiated a neural bridge with the fragment of Kaiju brain in the lab. I got enough of a Drift out of it to see that we were wrong. About everything. The Kaiju—they’re not all different. I told you this before: they all have the same DNA. The data is conclusive about that. They’re not just of the same species. They’re all _clones_. And that begs the question: who’s making them? From what I saw in the Drift, they’re being controlled by—by _something_. Someone. Some other beings that I couldn’t make out clearly, but they exist, and we need to figure out who they are and what they want. And the only way to do that is to initiate another Drift, a more complete one.”

Shaw makes a show of absorbing this information, though he’s already heard it three times before. Charles knows he’s just turning the variables around in his head, adding and subtracting factors to come up with a sum he likes. Charles watches the flickers of his mind as his thoughts churn, organized and methodical. Shaw is a cold, calculating man. His mind is a reflection of that. No wonder he and Erik clashed, Charles thinks. Erik’s mind is quick and impulsive and fiery. Hot where Shaw is cool, impassioned where Shaw is impassive. The two of them are like colliding storms waiting to break, and when they do, it won’t be pleasant for anyone caught underneath them.

“And you need a new Kaiju brain because...” Shaw drawls after a silence.

Charles reins in his impatience. “Because the one I Drifted with was badly damaged already. You know how quickly Kaiju decompose after death. It’s in their biology. I need a fresh Kaiju brain, as whole and undamaged as possible. I know it’s nearly impossible to get to the brain before it breaks down because the skull is too thick to cut through easily, but that’s not the case with the second brain. Kaijus are huge, and they need two brains to have the neural capacity to move and function. The second brain is always less protected. If I could just get my hands on one, the findings would be monumental, I know it.”

Shaw presses his lips together, looking thoughtful. He’s still seated behind his desk, but he has a way of making it seem like he’s looming over Charles, who remains standing at parade rest across from him. Finally, he says, “McCoy’s plan has merit.”

Charles huffs. “I won’t deny that Hank’s done a good job with his research. He’s done well predicting Kaiju events so far, and I have the utmost respect for him and his work. I’m not sure about the double event, but then again, I haven’t done more than scan over his data. But even if he is correct and more and more Kaiju start coming through the Breach, perhaps even in pairs or threes, that doesn’t change the fact that my research is equally valid and may yield equally significant data. Just because I was a pilot first and a scientist second doesn’t make my findings any less important.”

He takes a breath. He hasn’t had time to rehearse a speech or anything—just ran straight up to the Marshall’s office after he’d wiped the blood from his nose from the Drift, after he’d assured Hank he was alright. But he’s sure about this. He knows he’s right.

“Look,” he says. “Your plan right now is to take the Jaegers and try to close the Breach. I won’t deny that you have the manpower, if only one Kaiju emerges at a time and that’s dubious, according to Hank. And I won’t deny that Hank’s calculations look about right. He postulates that if events continue as they have been, the Breach will dilate enough to allow a nuclear bomb through, and I believe him, because I know he has a brilliant mind. If he says you stand a chance of closing the Breach, then you stand a chance. You want to go straight to the source and close it. But what if the Breach isn’t the source?”

Shaw frowns. Consideration filters in through his thoughts, and his mind slows as he directs his full attention to what Charles is saying. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, if what I’m thinking is true, then the Kaijus aren’t the end of it. They’re the beginning.” Charles breaks from his parade rest and paces a step forward, then sideways. He speaks better when he’s moving, when he can use his hands. Erik thinks it’s endearing. Erik—

No. No thinking of Erik now. Sometimes the bond between them thrums when his mind turns toward Erik, and he doesn’t want Erik to know what he’s done and what he’s planning to do.

“There’s something behind the Kaijus,” he explains. “I couldn’t see exactly what, but there are other beings there who are in charge. Kaiju attacks are not random, they’re coordinated. And those beings are coordinating them.”

“So what?” Shaw asks. “You think they’re the source?”

“I _know_ they are,” Charles says firmly. “And what’s more, they’re connected. It was—it was confusing. I think they’re connected in some sort of hive mind. When I was in the Drift, it wasn’t just me and the Kaiju. There were...a dozen other minds there with me. A hundred. They were very distant and difficult to make out, but I could feel them there. If I could just get another Kaiju brain to drift with—if I could create a stronger Drift, I might be able to access all their memories through the hive-mind. I could see everything.”

Shaw stills. “ _All_ of them?”

At Charles’ nod, the Marshall’s speculative look turns decisive. Still, he’s silent for another long minute, leaving Charles in painful suspense. Charles can find a way to end this war, or at least to turn the tide to their advantage. He knows it. He just needs Shaw’s help to do it.

At last, the Marshall stands from his desk, opens the drawer on the left, and withdraws a thin, cream-colored card. He hands it over to Charles and says, “The Jaeger Program has been steadily losing funding, as you know. We no longer have the resources to gather the sort of materials we need. So we’ve had to turn to more...unscrupulous sources.” He gestures to the card. “Emma Frost. Black market dealer. Jaeger parts are increasingly rare, what with the downgrade of the program, so she helps us acquire them. She also does weapons, some security business. But the largest part of her revenue base comes from selling Kaiju parts.”

“Novelties,” Charles says, nodding. People from all over the world collect any bits of Kaiju they can get their hands on, even the unsavory parts. A handful of Kaiju dung costs upwards of five thousand dollars. A chunk of heart can cost millions. Needless to say, the Kaiju harvesting business is extremely lucrative, not to mention extremely illegal.

“She helps fund us and cuts us good deals when we need them. In return, we give her exclusive access to Kaiju corpses. It’s not ideal, but it’s necessary.” Shaw points to the card. “Find her. If anyone can get you what you need, it’ll be Frost.”

For a second, Charles just stares down at the card in his hand. Then he realizes that Shaw is giving him permission to pursue this. His heart suddenly pounding hard in his chest, he says, “Thank you, sir,” and slips the card into his pocket. After a beat of hesitation, he adds, “One more thing, sir. Erik doesn’t know about this, and I’d rather he didn’t find out.”

The Marshall gives him a cool look. “You want me to keep this information from him?”

“Yes.”

Shaw _tsks_. “You understand that the last time I withheld information from Erik, he nearly killed me.”

Charles winces. He knows how betrayed Erik had felt about his mother, knows how much Erik hates Shaw to this day for making the executive decision to keep mum about what had happened. But this—this isn’t a betrayal, he tells himself. This is keeping Erik from undue worrying. With any luck at all, he’ll be back before Erik even realizes he’s gone.

“Yes, sir,” he says quietly. “And I’m asking you to do it anyway.”

Shaw studies him for a long moment. Then he nods. “Go. I have work to do.”

Charles tips him a quick salute before slipping out the door.

 

X

 

_"The Kaijus aren’t the end of it. They’re the beginning.”_

 

X

 

They play pinball all night. It’s the sort of night that never seems to end, the sort filled with wild, gleeful laughter and the pure, simple joy of being awake when it feels like no one else in the world is.

He wins four games and Armando wins six.

“I think,” Armando says, after slotting in his latest victory, “I should get a prize as victor.”

And because Alex is feeling reckless and giddy with sleep deprivation, he says, “Name it. Anything.”

“A kiss,” Armando says brashly, without even a beat of hesitation.

Alex’s heart seizes. He’s pretty sure he stops breathing for a full thirty seconds, though it’s probably only two. Armando’s smile doesn’t falter as he waits, but his eyes do get a little worried. Those have always been the most expressive parts of him: first his smile, then his eyes.

“I thought that was where this was going,” he says, still confident. Armando is always confident, even when he’s not. This would be the part where Alex would have backed away, laughed it off as a joke. This is the part where Armando presses forward.

“It—that—” Alex splutters for a second. And then he thinks, _well fuck it_. It _is_ where this has been going.

He grabs Armando by the collar and yanks him toward him, eager for a taste of those lips, for an intimacy even closer than the one they share daily, mind to mind. Armando laughs once, breathlessly, and pulls him forward.

He wakes up.

For a second, he lies perfectly still, not even breathing. And then a sob wells up in his throat out of nowhere, and even though he’s alone in the dark, even though there is no one to hear, he stifles the sound on his fist and tries desperately to breathe. He hasn’t cried over Armando in years. Hasn’t cried since the funeral, in fact, a hasty service over the sea where he’d stood in the back and left before it ended.

He doesn’t cry now either. He just puts his arm over his eyes and wills himself to breathe. In and out, one and two. He bites down on his sleeve so hard his teeth ache.

_It’s been five years, you idiot_ , he growls to himself. _Five fucking years._

But that’s nothing. It’s nothing, and he hates himself for it. It could be five years, it could be five decades, and it’ll still feel like only yesterday.

 

X

 

“Was it worth it,” Raven asks him two days after the fact, sitting beside him on the high platform in the hanger. “Was it worth never being able to Drift again?”

“Yes,” Charles answers without hesitation. It’s a relief that he can do so—he doesn’t have to think about it, because it’s true. He’s never been more terrified in his entire life, seeing Erik hanging limply in his Drivesuit, unresponsive and bleeding. A Drift without Erik—a _life_ without Erik—is nothing but emptiness. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I’d save him again every time.”

“Then you’ll be okay,” Raven says simply, leaning against him, and this is the first time that Charles realizes yes, they really will be.


	5. Shatter

 

X

 

The headache only worsens as the technicians prep them in the Drivesuit Room. As they run last-minute checks on the suits, Erik tries futilely to banish the steady, pounding pain behind his eyes. It’s bad but not debilitating enough to make him think twice about piloting. If only Charles were here, he thinks, rubbing his forehead in discomfort. Charles can make headaches vanish like magic.

They step onto the loading platforms and wait for the technicians to make sure their suits are properly hooked up. When they get the go-ahead signal, Raven begins the sequence for Drift initiation, and Erik closes his eyes.

The rush of Alex’s mind is easier to bear this time. Erik knows what to look for and what to avoid, and he slides past the aching scab of _Armando_ , past the patch of worry that is Scott, past the lingering wisps of a nightmare that has Alex unsettled now. _Calm_ , he says, and he knows his mental voice isn’t as strong or forceful as Charles’ can be, but Alex’s thoughts settle as they both fall deeper into the Drift, into the bridge of focus between their minds.

 _Ow,_ Alex thinks with a wince. _You have migraine problems or something._

 _Or something,_ Erik agrees. He pushes the pain to the back of their minds. _You ready?_

_More than._

They wait for the all-clear. And when it comes, Erik grits his teeth and tries to ignore the throbbing behind his temples, but it’s ramping up in intensity with every passing minute. 

He really wishes Charles were here.

 

X

 

Charles really wishes Erik were here. Or, more specifically, he wishes Erik were here with a Jaeger and he wishes he were in that Jaeger, perhaps in the copilot seat, though he would also settle for just the relative safety of the Jaeger cockpit.

Hong Kong, he finds, is not a particularly friendly city in torrential rain in the midst of a Kaiju attack. The streets are so flooded he’s slogging through water that comes up to his calves, and the majority of the buildings he passes are towering apartment complexes or skyscrapers that any Kaiju could topple with a direct hit, let alone two Category IVs. All the shelters have long since closed. He’s alone.

Ear-shatteringly close, a Kaiju roars, its wordless shriek echoing through the streets in dissonance with the rumble of thunder. Charles feels the ground tremble beneath his feet. No, he thinks, his heart thumping unevenly in his chest. Not quite alone.

He quickens his pace as best as he can, clenching his teeth together to keep them from chattering in the cold. He needs to find someplace to hide, and, failing that, he needs to keep moving until the Jaegers show up. It’s been nearly half an hour since the alarm first went up, and Jaegers are trained to deploy in under five minutes. They should be fighting already, but the Kaiju in the city sounds as if it’s roaming about freely, smashing through streets accompanied by cacophonous crashes of falling buildings. They must be busy engaging the other Kaiju, Charles reasons as he ducks into a narrow side alley. The Shatterdome only has three Jaegers fully-prepped to deploy, and Shaw will want to keep Shadow Wolverine out of the fray for as long as necessary, to keep Logan and Kitty safe and intact for the mission to close the Breach for good. And Blue Glory...

No, Shaw wouldn’t send them out. Not as unready as they are.

He tries to put Erik out of his mind, but the bond between them throbs. The pain is growing with the distance, and it’s only a matter of time now before Erik realizes the source of his matching headache. Charles keeps waiting for the spike of recognition, incredulity, anger. But it doesn’t come. Erik must truly be preoccupied with something else if he hasn’t noticed Charles’ absence yet, and Charles hopes to god it’s not Blue Glory that’s preoccupying him.

He ducks into a dark convenience store to catch his breath and wipe the rain from his eyes. He’s drenched and shivering. He can only hope that the rain is muddling his scent, making it more difficult for the Kaiju to track. 

Outside, the storm howls, obscuring his visibility. In this sort of weather, he can’t see ten feet in front of him, which is both advantageous and disadvantageous in turn. He’s in the middle of trying to work out how to use the rain as cover when a sharp bolt of _fuck, CHARLES_ slams into him, and he staggers back, grabbing at the bond to stabilize it. In doing so, he brushes up against Erik’s mind and feels his touch splinter outwards. The Drift, he realizes in shock and dismay. It’s Erik-and-Alex he’s feeling now, Erik-and-Alex’s surprise and fury.

But it’s fully Erik who snarls, _Charles, tell me you’re not where I think you are._

 _Erik, draw back,_ he answers, nudging Erik’s attention away. _You’ll break the Drift if you linger on me too long._

_Charles, tell me where you are right now or I will fucking kill you the next time I see you._

Charles swallows. _You’re going to kill me anyway._

 _Charles!_ Half a dozen questions surge through their link in a jumbled mess of worry and anger. _How the fuck did you—where are you—are you hurt—are you safe—are you armed—can you fight—are you hurt areyouhurtareyouhurt—_

 _Erik, I’m fine,_ he sends back, shaking the bond slightly in an attempt to dislodge him. _Go—just go. I’ll be—_

The storefront explodes in a blast of shattered glass, twisted metal, and broken concrete, and Charles hurls himself behind the nearby register, shielding his head with his arms. Curling up to make himself a smaller target, he takes cover as best he can beneath the counter, turning his face into his sleeve as glass rains down in both thick, deadly shards and fine, jagged pieces. A thin piece of girder the size of his arm slams down into the ground inches from his head, spraying chunks of concrete through the air. He feels some of the pieces slice into the back of his hands and bites his lip hard against the pain.

_Charles? CHARLES!_

_I’m fine,_ he says, a bit shakily. He doesn’t wait for the dust to completely settle before pushing himself to his feet, ready to run. Except when he takes one step toward the door, he sees the Kaiju looming directly in front of him in the street, rearing back to slam against the storefront another time. This time, there’s no doubt that the entire structure will collapse, weak as it already is with most of its front half crushed like a soda can.

 _Charles?_ Erik is frantic now, and his panic should feed Charles’ own, but instead Charles only feels very, very calm. No, not calm—numb. Numb with horror and shock.

 _Oh,_ he thinks back a bit faintly. _Oh shit._

 

X

 

There’s a lot of talk when Erik and Charles decide to christen their Jaeger simply Onslaught, abandoning the—not _long_ -standing tradition; the program’s only been around for barely a year at this point—usual custom of a two-part name. Some people like it, say that it’s a bold statement from the pair of new hotshots, while others balk, because this _is_ technically military, after all, and no one likes to keep things in neat-file order and follow tradition more than the military.

Erik and Charles _do_ follow tradition in the sense that they wait to name their Jaeger until after their first sortie with a Kaiju, emerging victorious over the amphibian-looking Category I that Charles later has inked across his right wrist. The battle itself is a rush because it’s their first real fight and it’s their first fight _together_ , holding mental hands across that neural bridgeway and moving in perfect synchronization to take the monster down nearly flawlessly, pulling off every move that they try with deadly precision and accuracy with hardly a pause to catch up mentally with each other. They already know one another and mesh that well.

It’s an onslaught. They both think the thought at the same time and glance at each other from across the cockpit and know.

“Gentlemen, it’s just really not done,” Shaw tries to tell them, looking at the both of them with cool amusement as they stand side-by-side at parade rest in front of his desk, so close that their arms are nearly brushing, “I know you think it sounds _cool_ , but I’ve got a base full of superstitious soldiers who think that having two names is better than one.”

“We didn’t name it for ‘coolness factor,’ sir,” Charles answers, a little dubiously. Surely the Marshall knows them better than that.

“We named it Onslaught because that’s what our Jaeger is,” Erik says tersely. Charles doesn’t have to be a telepath to know Erik thinks the superstition is...implausible, put politely. “That’s what _we_ are.”

Charles cannot suppress the tiny shiver he gets at Erik’s use of the plural. They’re a _we_ , now. They’re an _us_. Fortunately he’s able to hide it by rolling his shoulders in the guise of shifting restlessly before Erik or the Marshall can notice.

“I won’t deny that we haven’t seen a team more compatible than this,” Shaw acknowledges, his eyes glinting and oh, he’s openly amused now. Charles knew that Shaw wouldn’t hold much stock in things like tradition—he _is_ the man heading the program that involves enormous robots fighting even bigger aliens, after all. If that’s not unconventional then Charles isn’t sure what is. “Your fighting technique is fast and furious, too, I’ll give you that.”

“We’re not naming our Jaeger after a movie with too many sequels,” Erik answers, only barely keeping within the realm of respectfully addressing his superior officer.

Charles is fighting hard not to laugh now, and somehow manages to keep a straight face as he adds, “I agree with Erik, sir.”

“Yes, of course you do,” Shaw says, dry as bone, “anything to avoid further redundancy. Well, what about adding something to ‘Onslaught’ if you’re both so fond of it?”

“I still fail to see what’s wrong with just Onslaught,” Erik says stiffly.

“What about Relentless Onslaught?” Shaw suggests, not even bothering to hide his smirk.

“But sir,” Charles says, his own smile curling at the corners of his lips, “that’s just _redundant_.”

 

X

 

Raven never expresses any desire to become a Jaeger pilot, which surprises Charles at first because all throughout their childhood life she was the more adventurous one, the one more prone to taking risks, the one more likely to get into a fight. Having a large machine with any multiple array of weapons and explosives at her fingertips seems like something that would be right up her alley, but when the offer is made to take scans of her brain to test for compatibility levels—there’s a high chance, they say, that she’ll be compatible with Charles since records indicate siblings make good Ranger pairs--she politely refuses.

“Are you sure?” Charles asks her later as they leave the medbay together to wait for Charles’ scans to be processed. “I wouldn’t have stopped you if you said yes.” He gives her a rueful smile. “You’ve always said I’m too overbearing as an older brother, haven’t you? Here’s me gracefully stepping aside.”

Raven snorts. “There’s nothing graceful about you.”

“Hey—” Charles begins to protest.

“It’s not that, though,” Raven cuts across him smoothly, and Charles goes quiet to let her speak. They haven’t had an exactly ideal childhood, and sometimes it’s caused their very different personalities to clash, especially when Charles had taken it upon himself to act not only as Raven’s brother but as her guardian as well. It puts an odd twist to their already strange relationship, especially since communication has never been their strong point. “You couldn’t stop me if you tried, if I wanted to be a Ranger.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Charles says with another small smile. “It would be hypocritical of me, anyway, in light of my own decision to sign up for the program.”

“And you’re never a hypocrite, Charles,” Raven says dryly, but then stops when she sees his meaningful look. “Anyway. It’s not about whether or not I thought you would try to stop me from doing it.”

“Care to tell me?” Charles asks her gently.

She’s silent for a moment as they walk down the hall, thoughtful. Then she says quietly, “Charles, I don’t even let _you_ into my mind. What makes you think I want anyone else in my mind?”

Charles comes to a stop, and it takes Raven a couple extra paces before she notices, stopping as well to look back at him questioningly. “I hadn’t thought about it like that,” he admits.

It makes sense. They’ve had a long-standing agreement between them that Charles is to stay entirely out of her head with his telepathy unless otherwise given explicit permission. It’s a large part of the reason why things are often tense between them—Charles isn’t good at people, they’ve discovered, without his telepathy. He manifested at birth and has never had to perceive the world around him without it so asking him not to use his telepathy is the same as asking anyone else to not use their sight. Or hearing. Or touch.

Raven maintains that her mind is hers alone and guards this privacy with an unrelenting fierceness that Charles does his best to respect, even if it leaves him fumbling.

“Of course you didn’t,” she says, but there’s no bite to her voice as she reaches over to ruffle his hair. “Piloting a Jaeger involves the Drift. They link your mind directly with someone else’s. That doesn’t strike me as appealing. No offense.”

“None taken,” Charles replies, but raises an eyebrow. “Though for someone who adamantly refuses to hide, you’re awfully concerned with keeping your mind hidden.”

Raven grins, her white teeth bright against her royal blue skin. “That’s just who I am, Charles. Not everyone is fit to become a Ranger. You’ll be perfect, though, with your telepathy. It’s like we’ve finally found a group of people crazy enough to open their minds to anyone and everyone if need be. You already fit right in.”

Charles chuckles. “Point taken.” He catches her hand as she moves to withdraw, linking their fingers together. “Rather opposite of the real world, isn’t it? I can’t say it’s not refreshing.”

Raven laughs, squeezing his hand affectionately as they begin to walk again. “Well, if it means anything, I _am_ happy for you. I’ve never been able to be that open with you, but I’m glad we’ve found a place where people can be. Will be.”

“It means a lot,” Charles tells her softly, squeezing her hand back. “I’ve never been angry with you, you know, about wanting me to stay out. It’s alright. I’ve always understood.”

Raven gives him an unreadable look. “You always understand, Charles,” she says, and while her tone isn’t derisive Charles isn’t sure it’s entirely meant as a compliment either. Then the moment passes, and she’s cheerful again. “Anyway, I’ve sort of already talked to the Marshall a little about working my way up to LOCCENT.” She adds, teasing, “I think I’d be pretty good at keeping missions under control.”

Charles nods. Raven is nothing if not level-headed, which will be crucial under the pressure of running a Jaeger mission. “You’ll be perfect.”

“Of course I will,” Raven boasts, mostly for show as she grins and ruffles her hair again, “and besides, _someone_ has to make sure you crazies come home.”

 

X

 

When the Drift breaks, Charles feels as if someone has plunged an icy-cold hand into his guts, fished upwards, and ripped his lungs out. It isn’t so much the pain as it is the shock that has him gasping aloud, his entire body jerking spasmodically as his mind snaps around, half-bridged, half his own, half Erik’s, wholly confusing. Beneath him, he is vaguely aware of Onslaught jerking, too, one huge foot crashing down into the waves, one arm flailing as if warding off invisible enemies.

 _Erik,_ he shouts. _Erik!_

Nothing reaches back at him. He is alone in his head, but his mind is stretching outwards, still connected to Erik’s, being dragged from him with every passing second. Erik is going somewhere that isn’t their bridge, somewhere strange and indistinct and frightening. Charles scrabbles for him, but Erik isn’t responding. Trying to grab for his mind is like trying to hold onto a slippery rope, and his mental fingers burn at the friction. _Erik!_

Faintly, he hears _Mama!_ and then a distant, roaring fury that screams, _You hid it from me. For a week you had me pilot, for a week you kept me here while my mother was dying in the hospital and you **had no right,** YOU HAD NO RIGHT—_

The realization is like a slap to the face. _Erik, no! Erik! ERIK!_

Neither of them is a rookie. Neither of them has ever made rookie mistakes. One of the first lessons of Drifting is to never latch too firmly onto any memory, or else risk the collapse of the Drift that must be maintained with strict concentration. It’s called chasing the rabbit, and they have never been guilty of it, so Charles doesn’t know exactly how it feels. But now, _this_ —he has no doubt that Erik is losing himself and dragging Charles down in the process. 

 _Erik, come back!_ he tries to shout, but it is like screaming down a wind tunnel. He tries to reach out with his telepathy, but it is difficult to maneuver when the neural interface is splintered like this, so confusing to navigate, impossible to shove through.

And then everything shudders, and he jolts back away from the bridge into physical reality. Onslaught shudders again, and Charles hears Raven scream, “Charles, what the _hell_ is happening in there?”

Sparks are flying from jostled equipment. Their power level has dropped from 84% to 68%, and they’ve already burned out some of their extra fuel cells from their rush to reach Red Darwin. Charles has little to no control of the right hemisphere of the Jaeger, what with Erik spiraling down and away.

And Knifehead is on them. Not close, not nearing, it is literally _on them,_ its claws scratching for the vulnerable glass viewscreen of the Conn-Pod, its teeth closing vice-like around Onslaught’s right shoulder. It bites down viciously, sharp teeth crunching metal, and Charles cries out, half in fear for Erik, half in anger. The circuitry suit wired underneath the Drivesuit allows pilots to feel what the Jaegers do, to detect damage and avoid it and the like, so the Kaiju’s razor-sharp teeth must feel like knives stabbing into Erik’s shoulder. But Erik is so far gone he hardly flinches, and the only sound that emerges from him is a low, soft moan.

Charles pulls his scattered mind together and forces Onslaught’s left arm up to grab the Kaiju by the thick skin of its neck. He clenches his fingers together and feels metal dig deep into scaly flesh. Then he wrenches Knifehead from Onslaught’s front and flings it bodily away, staggering when the Kaiju slams into the water in a tremendous spray of water. The effort feels colossal; Onslaught responds far more slowly than usual, and Charles shakes with the strain, unused to shouldering the brunt of the neural load by himself.

“Charles!” Raven shouts. “What’s happening? Erik’s vitals are way off, and the neural interface—”

“Out of alignment,” he pants aloud, his pulse thundering between his ears. “I know, I know. Erik’s—”

Knifehead spears up out of the water and smashes into Onslaught’s weak right side. Charles reels, unable to control their fall with just control of the left hemisphere. Rain is beating down so heavily that it’s hard to tell what is the sky and what is the ocean. All he knows is that the Jaeger lands with a jarring crash on its side, Erik’s side. There’s no time to recover--Knifehead pounces on their exposed left side in an instant, and Charles raises his arm to beat it off. But he’s not fast enough, and the Kaiju’s jaws snap around the thick elbow joint and _rips._

Charles feels the arm tear free just above the elbow, metal and gears and wiring shearing apart in a messy, horrible screech of machinery. He can’t bite back the scream of agony, the circuitry suit transmitting every sensation from Jaeger to pilot so vividly that he nearly blacks out with the shock of the injury. His ears are ringing with pain, and his head lolls for a moment as he teeters on the edge of blackness. 

It’s Raven’s voice that pulls him back. “Charles! _Charles!_ Stay conscious, do you hear me? You need to stay conscious—the Kaiju’s circling back around for another— _Charles_ , are you listening to me? Stay with me now, _stay with me!”_

He blinks blearily. His left arm hangs uselessly by his side, afire with pain. It might as well be gone. He shudders and fights his way back to full awareness, trying to assess the situation and figure out a strategy all at once. One Kaiju, one Jaeger at—he glances at the side monitor above his head—42% and falling. And he is only one pilot, one half of a whole.

To his side, Erik hangs lifelessly in his Drivesuit. The faint press of his mind is all that tells Charles he’s still breathing. His mind has gone too far down the rabbit hole to drag back, and even if it weren’t, Charles has no energy to go after him. He barely has the energy to hold his own head up. This is no time to be worrying for Erik. This is the time to be worrying for himself.

_Think, Xavier, **think**_ **.**

Sweat stings his eyes, blinding him. He raises his good hand and yanks the helmet off his head, tossing it away. Wiping his eyes, he takes a shaky breath and forces his broken thoughts into some semblance of order.

Two good legs, 39% power, one cannon in the arm that he can’t use. 39% is enough for two, three blasts at most. But he can’t even reach the arm, _fuck_.

Or can he?

Erik’s conscious mind is gone, but his body is still there, and so is the delicate nervous system that controls it. A nervous system that Charles, with his telepathy, can use. 

Sensors on the viewscreen and side monitors beep frantically, and there’s no time to think anymore, just act. Knifehead surfaces in an explosion of water two hundred yards away according to the sensors, and Charles guides the Jaeger painstakingly to its knees, then to its feet. He can’t see anything in the blur of rain, but the thermal imaging picks up Knifehead’s heat signature approaching fast on his left. Even though he tenses in preparation, he’s still caught off-guard by how quickly the Kaiju moves, spinning upward into the air with the lethal claws of its front legs arcing for the Conn-Pod, straight for Charles.

He waits until the last possible moment before turning and allowing the Kaiju to latch onto his left side. Its claws tear into the already-shredded metal of the ripped arm, and Charles bites down on his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. Then he dives into Erik’s mind, racing past the turmoil of his waking mind, still stuck somewhere Charles can’t reach. He reaches down, down, down until he finds the base instincts, the centers of the brain that send neural impulses to control the body, and he grabs a hold of them and orders Erik to _move._

Erik’s right arm comes up. Onslaught’s right arm surges up in response and slams palm-flat against the Kaiju’s throat. Charles pulls metal fingers closed around the ridge of bone at its collar and shouts, “Cannon!” 

“ _Cannon engaged_ ,” says the Jaeger A.I. A deep hum accompanies its words, the sound of the plasma cannon coming to life. The Kaiju twists viciously, clawing down Onslaught’s side and ripping new holes into the Jaeger’s torso, digging deeper toward its core. Charles is distanced from the pain, planted so deeply in Erik’s mind that his own body feels far away. He tightens Onslaught’s grip on the Kaiju, waits for the cannon to reach full charge, and fires.

Once—power level down to 29%. Twice—11%.

" _Power levels critical.”_

 _One more,_ he thinks hazily. He would be desperate if he weren’t getting so light-headed. All he can think is _one more_ and he squeezes his hand around the Kaiju’s throat and thinks, _Fire._

He’s not sure if he blacks out, but the next time he comes to, he’s still looking through Erik’s eyes, and all life signs of the Kaiju have ceased. Through the cracked main screen, he can see Knifehead’s corpse sinking into the waves. It’s done. _He did it._

He still has enough presence of mind to pull back, following the thin tether of telepathy back into his own head, and then he sags bonelessly in his harness, terribly weary and terribly cold. He can’t feel his left arm. He can’t even feel his legs. He’s bleeding from his nose and his ears and his mouth; he can taste coppery slickness down his tongue and throat. His head is throbbing as if it’s about to explode. He tries to reach up and stem the blood flowing from his nose, but he doesn’t think his hand is responding. Nothing is responding. 

“Charles!” he hears, and all the sound around him suddenly filters in at once: half a dozen different pitches of beeping signaling emergencies, the creak and groan of abused metal, Raven and Shaw and a dozen other people shouting through the comm system, his own heavy labored breathing, the crack of thunder, and water.

Water rushing in through the gaping holes torn in Onslaught’s hull.

It takes his ragged mind a precious few seconds to realize what is happening: the Jaeger has listed into the ocean and is lying on its side, all two thousand tons sinking with every passing second. The Conn-Pod is flooding rapidly, the water already up to his ankles, and if they don’t get out, they’ll drown.

The last dregs of adrenaline shoot through his veins, giving him enough energy to raise his head and look toward Erik. Still not conscious. He tries to reach out with his telepathy and is met with such a sharp agony that his eyes sting with tears. He knows this feeling. Too much. He’s overextended his telepathy, and if he pushes it, he’ll pass out. But he can’t reach Erik’s monitor from his platform, as much as he stretches out his right arm. He can’t send him to his escape pod. 

 _Manually,_ he thinks woozily. He fumbles with the buckles of his suit and his legs give way as soon as the harness releases. He hits the ground hard enough to drive all the breath from him.

He comes to at the slap of water against his face and at Raven’s voice echoing in the cockpit: “Charles, get out of there! The Conn-Pod’s filling up, you’ve got to get out!” 

She sounds panicked. Shaw is saying something, too, his voice infinitely calmer but infinitely sharper. Ignoring them both, Charles struggles to his knees, his entire body almost too heavy to move. He drags himself over to Erik’s side and somehow manages to stand, bloodied fingers swiping across the screen to activate the ejection sequence. Then he stumbles back as Erik’s platform raises up into the ejection pod. A moment later, he’s gone, and Charles is left standing alone in the cockpit of their ruined Jaeger.

He’s got to eject, too, but it’s getting harder and harder to focus. Spots of black dancing on his vision, he staggers toward his own platform and gets halfway up before he collapses against the seat, his gloved fingers gripping painfully around the wires of his harness as water swirls up to his thighs. He gasps for air through the blood still running from his nose and mouth.

 _Don’t black out, don’t black out,_ he thinks fiercely. _You’re nearly there, you idiot, get up, get up, **get**_ —

**Author's Note:**

> A poster of Erik and Charles' Jaeger Onslaught can be found [here](http://pangeasplits.tumblr.com/post/56706594477/onslaught-piloted-by-erik-lehnsherr-and-charles).


End file.
